


Dead Men Sing No Songs

by Birdie_Lo_Green



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Denial of Feelings, Dialogue Heavy, Dragons, Exposition, F/M, Friendship, Horseback Riding, Long Shot, Night King Ruins Everything, Road Trips, Sailing, Season/Series 08, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 18:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14526486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_Lo_Green/pseuds/Birdie_Lo_Green
Summary: 'Winter has come and the wheel stands frozen.The lion and the dragon fight together and the living go to war with the dead.Foreign armies march to join north men. Oaths are kept and hearts are broken.The Wall has fallen and the Night King rides a dragon. Skies rain blue flames and the wolves ready for winter.The mockingbird burns, secrets must be learned and to fall in love is to risk losing everything.The Game of Thrones is one nobody can win when death is playing. The Long Night has come.'Canonical season 8. Follows characters after the Dragonpit Summit. Any excuse to write Sandor and Sansa and Stark sibling reunions.





	1. Sum of Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion thinks back on the last time he was in King's Landing.

**TYRION**

 

Beyond the crumbling perimeter of a pit once built to hold dragons, their lesser ancestors twittered gaily in the palms. Soldiers sweated in all manners of armour; black and silver, red and gold, mismatched gauntlets lifted from bodies not long cold. Others lacking altogether, straddled snorting stallions preferring salt stained furs and leather. Eyes dark and focused, musculature bronzed and hard, beards and braids hung over taut torsos and scarred backs and at their waists hung curved black arakhs. High above them lining parapets, defending archer’s twitched at their quivers and infantry held swords tighter, backs turned to steaming barrels of resinous pitch. Staring hard across the gate, rows of invaders returned the look with a soldier’s righteous hatred. Between them smaller factions of killers, hand reared to feel no fear, gripped the hafts of tall spears. Goading gossip about cockless warriors ran with discussion in foreign tongues. Underpinned by the beating hearts of thousands ready to die for their Queens, the low hum rose akin to the far off drumming heralding a marching force. Blending with it, the hubbub of the city sang of a million humans all coming and going. Utterly oblivious to a looming threat or the life altering commitment sworn between rivals for their kingdom, life within the walls carried on. Brothels welcomed patrons, taverns expelled the bacchanalian, expectant women wailed with birth pangs whilst others bent on hand and knee to catch infants. Further in men perspired with every swing of a hammer and steel sang, beggars extended rattling cans, market stalls bellowed bargains and alchemists toiled over cauldrons, seeking to brew concoctions fit to fell a dragon. The woman who had ordered it and the invader she hoped to vanquish had endorsed a truce against all expectations. Witnesses walked from the scene in ruminative silence as though in fear of breaking the spell of such a dubious alliance.

“Success is not an outcome I’d associate with your sister and negotiation,” a eunuch was the first to speak, leaning to catch a dwarf’s ear. “At least never beyond Lannister self-interest and yet not only did Cersei respond to reason, her only ally has abandoned her out of fear of dead men...” Varys’s tone was both smug and questioning. Tyrion walked away as quickly as his legs could carry him, all too aware of what the former master of whispers was implying.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Tyrion remarked of Euron, the fleeing pirate. Passing his nephew, the odd pair raised their voices forcing him to listen. “It would certainly be a break from tradition were a  _ slimy _ _ coward _ no longer the ruler of the Iron Islands.” Theon Greyjoy, a man broken by the whims of his victors, flinched at mere mention of his kin. Varys feigned ignorance, sharing his disappointment in other blood of the Kraken.

“And I had such hope for the daughter, Yara. Seems her ambitions to break the chain of reeving and raping have seen her falling prey to it. Only Euron is to know what’s become of her. Under your sister’s reign bodies have been known to disappear. How  _ lucky _ you were to make it out of a meeting with her.” Quoting his late father, flashes of the end Tyrion had delivered him besieged his vision:

“I am _lucky_ only that my sister will never be half as clever as she thinks she is.” Eyes narrowing, Varys had the last word. 

_“Are you?”_ Arms crossed the eunuch hastened to eavesdrop on more interesting members of their party. Head bowed and ambivalent, Tyrion slowed. The mystery of his purpose was ceaseless.

* * *

 

Last he had lived in the city, Tyrion had served unwillingly: as an unwanted son, a scorned younger brother, an objectionable husband and sole murder suspect. Poisoned at his own wedding, Tyrion’s nephew, the boy King Joffrey had fallen clutching at his throat until he was blue in the lips. Caught clutching the cup from which he’d sipped, Tyrion had been thrown into a dungeon. Awaiting judgement on a hay strewn floor with only a pot to piss in, his squire Podrick had come to him. Nobly smuggling candles, almonds, duck sausage and quill and parchment, most valuable had been his faith in Tyrion’s innocence and any information on his impending judgement. Sent to enquire into choice of witnesses, Podrick had shared with Tyrion how his new wife Sansa Stark had gone missing, that he’d been propositioned. Offered a lordship in exchange for false testimony, Podrick had held loyalty to higher regard than status or money and denied the faceless men. Tyrion, though impassioned, had begged his squire to flee the city and called upon his brother Jaime. Named the Kingslayer for assassinating Aegon Targaryen, Jaime had betrayed his vows and saved the people from burning by a Mad King. Exclusively aware of the shades of grey involved in killing, Jaime didn’t suspect Tyrion, but had just as little clue who had ended the King. Positing his defence to Cersei, she had remained insistent that the crime could only have been Tyrion’s, that Jaime’s failings had made an easy target of her son and that he’d better serve them by finding Tyrion’s partner in crime. Instead Jaime had given the task to the only person he could trust: Brienne of Tarth. Gifted a sword, a suit of armour and Podrick for her squire, the pair had left King’s Landing unaware of what awaited Tyrion and hopeful to find the lady Sansa.

Called upon to stand trial, Tyrion had been shackled and escorted to the throne room. Judged by his father, Tywin, alongside him had been friend of the crown and father in law to the late king, Mace Tyrell and foreign emissary for the lands of Dorne, Oberyn Martell. Asked his plea Tyrion had pleaded ‘not guilty’ and been forced to listen as any man he had wronged had been called upon. Twisting his deeds and words out of all context had made for damning evidence of his murderous intent and denied even self-defence, Tyrion sat rueful and condemned. Each of his accusers had wished Joffrey dead and now pointed the finger at Tyrion to absolve themselves of suspicion. Wise to the fact and to their father’s complicity in such a farce, Jaime had bargained for Tyrion’s life. Consenting to step down as King’s Guard, to take a wife and bear children with the Lannister name, Jaime had been given assurances that Tyrion would be found guilty and spared execution. Promising his brother that he’d be exiled to serve as a member of the Night’s Watch, Jaime had begged Tyrion to trust him, to stay mum and allow proceedings to continue with no outbursts from him. Unaware of this negotiation, Cersei had played the hand she’d kept hidden calling a final witness. Into the throne room had stepped a woman Tyrion had assumed lost to him. Not Sansa, but her handmaiden Shae. She had been with him long before his marriage and the murder of the King. A prostitute found on an encampment and set to serve him, Shae’s talents and tenacity had impressed Tyrion. Requesting exclusivity, Shae had accompanied him to King’s Landing. Serving as Hand of the King, Tyrion had fallen in battle, attacked on orders of his sister or father, nephew even and Shae had seen him, injured and afraid and thrown his money in his face. Begging that he leave with her and put an end to playing their dangerous games, Tyrion had never known anything else. His only joy in life was winning and he was on the back foot. Still Shae had stayed with him in spite of his rejections. Through healing and hiding and marriage to another woman, despite warnings of Tywin’s disapproval and Cersei’s spite, the complication of a virgin wife, Shae had been the light of Tyrion’s arduous life.

On the contrary, his spouse Sansa had lost her father to Joffrey’s tyranny, her brother to Tywin’s war strategies and her name to Tyrion. Expected to bear children named after her family’s killers, he had promised never to lay a hand upon Sansa without her consent. They had become unwilling friends, trapped in a prison of other’s making. Pressure of wanting to win whilst having so much to lose steadily crushing him, Tyrion had chosen birthright over romance and removed his weakness. Naming Shae a whore, unfit to be with him, Tyrion had booked passage for one on a boat to Essos. Arranging a comfortable home with servants and income to last the rest of her days, Tyrion had considered everything to spare her hanging at his father’s hands or his sister’s command and hoped never to see her hurt again. Reappearing to stand over him in court, Shae had shared a rehearsed confession. Designed to condemn Tyrion as abuser of women and murderer of boy kings, her words had also implicated Sansa. Declaring that the girl had offered him her chastity in exchange for killing Joffrey, the woman scorned had spun an unanswerable story. With a wife on the run, lover betrayed and heartbroken, Tyrion had offered his confession: how he wished to be the monster they’d painted him, that he’d never defended them at Battle of the Blackwater and that whoever had really killed Joffrey had saved them from a reign of terror. Declining the verdict of men, Tyrion had chosen the God’s judgement and declared trial by combat; a champion to fight for his freedom. Given everything his heart had desired, Tywin had granted the public their entertainment. Vindicated and bloodthirsty, Cersei had chosen the biggest and most brutal of their father’s men, Gregor Clegane. Named the Mountain, on account of his height and the trail of bodies attempts to conquer him had left behind, Clegane was renowned for his inhumanity. Predictably none volunteered to face him and Jaime who had lost a hand during captivity had no hope to defeat anyone. Tyrion’s confidant who had once fought for him, the sellsword Bronn had been bought where Podrick had run. Out of options and soon to be killed by a man who had dashed infants brains, Tyrion had received his last visitor. Lamp held aloft, the bronzed Oberyn Martell had taken a seat in his dungeon and told Tyrion a story of childhood disappointment. Visiting the Lannister seat of Casterly Rock, Oberyn’s father had taken his three children. Unimpressed with the place, they’d come to see just one thing: the ‘monster’ born to Lord Tywin. Cersei had promised to show them and when she had Oberyn had seen nothing, but a baby. Accusing Tyrion of killing her mother and hopeful that he would die soon, Cersei had never stopped dreaming. Oberyn too had long aspired for just one thing: vengeance for the murder of his sister and her children by the Mountain. Tyrion had found himself a champion.

Named the Red Viper for his fighting style, Oberyn had been calm and fast to strike. With speed on his side and out for an eye for an eye, ultimately his sense of justice left Oberyn open. Having conquered the Mountain, he had ordered him to reveal whose command had doomed his kin. Feigning weakness, the Mountain had lunged for the Viper and caught him, squeezing until his eyes were mash and his head had caved in. Oberyn’s lover had screamed whilst the public had cheered and the Mountain had stood long enough to be named Champion. Mouth hanging open all the way back to the dungeons, Tyrion had resigned himself to execution, to having lost this game to his sister and father, to finally meeting the mother he had killed, when the brother who had bargained for his life had come through for him again. Conspiring with the late king’s spymaster, Varys to arrange Tyrion’s escape, Jaime had risked treason to save him, but Tyrion couldn’t bear to leave without saying his goodbyes. Seeking his father out, Tyrion had stumbled upon a sight burnt forever into his mind. Nude within golden sheets, olive skin glowing under lamp light, Shae had roused from sleep. Whispering his father’s name and ‘my lion’, a sobriquet once reserved solely for Tyrion, at the sight of him she’d gasped and lunged. Taking her in his arms again, she’d fought against him and he’d fallen, fists clenched and pulling hard upon the golden chain about her neck. Minutes had passed and she’d never said anything else. Body slack, unseeing eyes stared toward Tyrion’s retreating back. Crossbow in hand, hot tears staining tracks down his cheeks, Tyrion had cornered his father upon the wooden seat of a privy and he had killed him. Castle bells ringing so soon after the murder of the King, a box had been waiting for Tyrion. Advised to trust the master of whispers, he who had given testimony against him, Tyrion was out of options and beyond caring what became of him. Loaded onto a ship to be carted across the narrow sea, he’d been kidnapped, sold into slavery and finally presented to the Queen that Varys had meant to have him serve, Daenerys Targaryen. Despite the atrocities committed against her family by his, Tyrion had been invited almost immediately into her service. Advising her on traitors and allies, fathers and lovers, diplomacy and succession, the sum of their conversations had been an alliance with Sansa’s brother, Jon Snow and a truce with Tyrion’s sister. A queen who had burnt enemies alive for her throne, when presented with an undead soldier, one of a hundred thousand making their way South, Cersei had pledged her house and it’s armies, but Tyrion knew better than to take her word. It had been the last mistake of too many.

* * *

 

“I owe you a deal of gratitude.”  Jon Snow had slowed to walk at Tyrion’s side with a face like someone had just died. The King in the North, he was known for his honour, battles he’d survived and being the bastard son of a nobleman, but what Tyrion had always liked best about Jon was his icy glowering.

“You have my respect,” Tyrion offered and Jon modestly bowed his head. “Though it’s possible that what you owe me are  _ undergarments _ . Mine were repeatedly  _ soiled _ in the Mountain’s presence.” Cersei had offered a truce on one condition: that the King in the North remain neutral in the eventual war for the throne. Having pledged fealty to Queen Daenerys, Jon had been honest and Cersei explosive. Tyrion had volunteered to defuse the bomb, the only one with the expertise to do so and though he’d led his sister to believe she’d won, victory wasn’t an option. Survival was the best anybody could hope for and Cersei wanted to live as much as any of them.

“What happened?” Tyrion finally voiced words he'd been rehearsing.

“On the Rose Road my sister felt a dragon’s might. In the pit under the pure light of day she saw a monster from nightmares. It’s in her nature to play for profit, but in the end, she acted in her best interest. The longevity of House Lannister is my sister’s only concern.”

“And yours?” Jon’s eyes bored into Tyrion, the same grey as his father’s. Eddard Stark had died for integrity rather than live to assure his legacy. Tyrion’s father had taught him only duplicity. 

“At this point I pull through day by day and my only concern is where my next drink is coming from.” Jon broke character to smile like he wanted to believe him.

“Next we toast, our glasses will be raised to you.” Tyrion smiled too and his was just as empty.

“Tell me, will you pen a letter to your sister, Sansa? Put her mind at ease? Must be _taxing_ for a _lady_ to keep so many _acerbic,_ _lordly_ _men_ on such a tight leash for _so_ _long_.”  Jon’s forced mirth drained from him. Gulping, the King nodded his leave and carried on with long strides, thinking of his own sister rather than Tyrion’s.

* * *

 


	2. Safety In Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More post dragonpit conversations. Mutiny, superstition, tradition, roles of wild lions, Dothraki escorts and stray dogs.

**JON**

 

Nothing Jon had experienced within the Dragonpit had surprised him. Cowardice was to be expected of a Greyjoy. The Mountain  _ had _ died for nothing and risen again. Jaime Lannister’s golden hand was just as laughable as he’d heard and Cersei just as unreasonable. What Jon had never expected was to find allies in King’s Landing.

“Lady Brienne.” Stopping to bow to him, his sister’s sworn sword towered over Jon.

“I’m not a lady, your Grace.” Jon was not really a King, but titles stuck for whatever reason. Lady Brienne bore all the conditioning of a noblewoman and the swordsmanship of a knight. As such there was no one better to preserve Sansa’s life and yet Brienne had left her side. “You came South on  _ what _ calling?”

“An  _ invitation _ for the Lady Sansa from Cersei Lannister.” Jon almost stopped walking. “Unwilling to abandon the North and your siblings, orders were given that  _ I  _ represent the wardeness’s interests.” Jon had written to Sansa informing her of his intentions to raid beyond the wall, of the purpose of their gathering in King’s Landing and to insist that she remain within the North, managing their home and his men until his imminent return.

“Impossible. Our summit was open to Cersei, Queen Daenerys and immediate allies only. Sansa was aware of this and instructed to lead in my absence under condition that there must  _ always _ be a  _ Stark _ in Winterfell.”

“At present there are three, your Grace-”

“A cripple and two girls!” Protecting loved ones required both strength of body  _ and _ mind.

Brienne had been conned by a dupe as pathetic as a letter. They were going into war and everybody needed to be better. 

“Grown  _ women _ and a  _ clairvoyant _ if I’m not mistaken. They are  _ not _ children-”

“But they are  _ alone _ amongst men of  _ arrogance _ and  _ low cunning _ . Littlefinger being the worst of them. With you here who protects my kin?” Brienne’s brow furrowed and her chin trembled.

“Lady...Sansa... _insisted_...that she required _no_ _minding_ or _guarding_ , that she was _home_ , the safest place for her-”

“There’s safety in numbers and there’s opportunity for mutiny.” Speaking from bitter experience, the wounds Jon’s own men had inflicted upon him still throbbed when he lost his temper.

“You swore to their mother that you’d lay down your life for both Sansa and Arya. Have you ever broken an oath before, Lady Brienne?” 

“Never, your Grace.” Brienne shared his sense of honour, but she was blind to pretence. 

“I hope for your sake and that of my sister’s that faith in the safety of Winterfell has not been misplaced.” Jon’s hands itched to write and he quickened his pace.

 

**DAENERYS**

 

All her life Daenerys had dreamed of the day she would set foot in King’s Landing, of conquering the Kingdom of Westeros and sitting the Iron Throne. Now outside of the city’s walls, she had met with it’s Queen and offered her peace. Everything Daenerys had been told of Cersei had been proven by her performance in the pit. She had long thwarted her enemies from behind the scenes only to lose her children, her father and her prominence to men of religion and a public hungry for humiliation. Seizing the opportune moment, she had burnt them all to dust and and taken the throne for her own. Daenerys could admire strong will in a woman, but that was all she wished for them to share in common. Where Cersei wielded fear of a reckoning to rule the seven kingdoms, Daenerys resolved to win the loyalty of the people.

“Positive outcomes rouse suspicion, my Queen.” Jorah spoke at long last. Having held his tongue in the pit, he was a man of solutions and prudence. Surrounded by Lannister soldiers in the presence of a Queen known only for volatility, Jorah’s hand had been glued to the pommel of his sword. Walking now beside his own Queen, Jorah’s hands remained ready.

“After the treachery of Mereen?” Across the narrow sea, Daenerys had easily garnered the devotion of slaves, but those in King’s Landing thought themselves free. “Indeed, but Westeros is another beast altogether. To you and I, this land is both foreign and home, but to my khalasar it is an _invitation:_ for _trouble_. The stallion that mounts the world has never galloped so far. Do ashes made here still rise to the Nightlands? You alone speak their tongue, Jorah. You know their customs. Only you can be trusted to guide them through the dangerous place to which I’ve brought them. Arrangements for further travel will be settled in Dragonstone and then you must return to King’s Landing to lead them North.”   Daenerys spoke without interruption and provided Jorah no freedom of choice. The blue of his eyes had always spoken at volume which belied his brevity.

“At your command, khaleesi.” No matter the order, he would prefer to be at her side and wound die to protect her. Now that they had returned to his homeland, a place from which he’d been exiled, a kingdom rife with enemies, Jorah couldn’t hide his worry. “Tell me, will you  _ fly _ to the North?” She knew it was the safest course of action, but not what was needed to win.

“Would it’s men welcome me were I to arrive mounting a dragon? Or would they remember my father wrongfully burning the ancestors of their beloved king? My brother Rhaegar kidnapping their women? If the Northmen are  _ anything _ like the man they  _ chose _ to rule them, they hold  _ character _ to a higher esteem than  _ power _ . I want them to  _ see _ me.” Jorah inhaled and then sighed loudly. Jon’s father had sought to kill him for selling Northmen into slavery. Though Jorah respected his son, he knew that the saying of his people: ‘the North remembers’ could condemn him just as well as Daenerys Targaryen.

“Your character is unassailable khaleesi, but your body…” Tyrion had once told Daenerys that without her all would be lost. She was an idea within a living host, but she refused to allow the burden of her mortality to prevent her from carrying out her duty. Once Daenerys sat the Iron throne, any heir would have to be worthy, like Jon, rather than in line on account of biology. “Your  _ safety _ is of paramount importance, my Queen.”

 

“King’s protection serves every soul in ‘is domain.” Jon’s confidante, Davos of House Seaworth, had always spoken highly of him and bluntly, betraying his humble beginnings. “Little risk of assassinations so far north, I assure ye’.” 

“Wasn’t House Frey recently  _ entirely _ wiped out with  _ poison _ and left with the ominous warning: ‘ _ the north remembers’ _ ?” Once spymaster to Westerosi kings, Lord Varys had betrayed them to serve an exiled Queen and after so much time wings still brought him word of their affairs.

“Aye.” Davos seemed unnerved to have been caught in a lie. “So they say. Tale so tall it can be seen from across the Narrow Sea.”

“ _Indeed_. “ Lord Varys turned to his Queen, arms tucked into his sleeves and smiling with a genuine enthusiasm. “Word has it that Lord Walder Frey himself dosed his own men under spectral possession of a _woman_ , that his _corpse_ was found with neck _slit_ almost to _decapitation_ much like that of the last person he had _murdered_ beneath his roof: the Lady _Catelyn_ _Stark_.” Voice lowered lest Jon should hear mention of his father’s wife, Daenerys knew so little of her or of Jon’s life. Despite what they were facing, she looked forward to finding out just where such a man had come from, to meeting his kin, to seeing more of him in a new setting, to defending his home and finding one of her own.

“Superstition founded upon tradition, “Jorah cut in again with logic and fact, “Northerners have long considered it a great betrayal to kill a guest, khaleesi.” Daenerys spoke to him alone.

“Then I expect that respect for hospitality ought to protect me.” Though Davos smiled, Jorah’s faith in northern customs was missing. Daenerys’s aide, Missandei too had questions about what exactly was common this side of the Narrow Sea.

“Do the dead rise often in Westeros, Lord Varys?” Varys looked toward the rest of their party and then at Davos with brows raised. 

“Only recently, my lady. In truth tales of  _ sorcery _ and the  _ supernatural _ once intrigued me. Now... having seen what the Wall was erected to protect us all from, I wish that I’d taken advice to assign extra men to the Night’s Watch more seriously.” Jon had made do without them and despite attacks the Wall remained. Wildlings had come through and the Night King would have to defeat them to make it too. 

“Particularly with all the  _ desertions _ ,” Jorah’s mood had turned sour. “ _ Murder _ and  _ mutiny- _ ”

“There number ain’t many, your Grace, but the Wall has stood for thousands of years and in the North, no man dare cross Jon. He keeps ‘em all safe.” Daenerys wanted to believe him, wanted to regret having given her most loyal man the task of escorting her Dothraki.

“Who keeps  _ him _ safe?” But Jorah’s hostility was leading Daenerys to believe it was the best course of action. Jorah wanted nothing, but to be needed. The more allegiances Daenerys made the less his council was heeded. Biased by love for her, he often advised caution when it came to her life and reckless abandon regarding his own. At Tyrion’s suggestion that Jon bring the dead to Cersei, Jorah had been the first to request the honour of risking his life in her service. He had kissed her hands goodbye and though he’d survived their excursion, it had been barely. Falling from the back of her dragon as they’d left Jon behind, only Sandor Clegane’s swift reflexes had saved Jorah’s life. Atop the Wall, he had waited with her in naive hope of Jon’s return and stared in awe as his black horse had broken the white of the forest. Aboard Daenerys’s ship, Jorah too had seen Jon’s scars. Whilst Jorah had vowed to die for his Queen, Jon  _ had _ died and would again for whoever it was that he believed in. 

”Your King may not wear a  _ crown _ or sit a  _ throne _ .” Friction had often developed between Jorah and any man who had sought to win Daenerys’s favour, but he and Jon had fought together. Jorah’s own father had chosen Jon to follow in his footsteps whilst the same man’s judgement had once shamed Jorah into exile. He had failed his family and betrayed Daenerys. Having watched Jon drown, he wasn’t willing to do it again. “He may have survived many a danger, but every ruler needs more than one man with two whole hands appointed to his protection.” Davos had once been a smuggler and was missing fingers on account of the justice of Stannis Baratheon. He was a loyal man, but no warrior and had not joined them raiding beyond the Wall.

“Joffrey had _seven_ _guards_ ,” Varys countered smartly, either keen to defuse the situation or simply aiming to irritate Jorah, “And in the end _none_ could save him.” At mention of dead kings, the group lapsed momentarily into silence, all eyes on Jon.

“Perhaps…” Davos spoke again, “Joffrey was missing the only one that mattered. Excuse me, my Queen, Missandei,” and with that Jon’s friend wandered away with a far off look in his eye and the lengthy stride of a man on a mission.

 

“I assure you my Queen, the North is no more dangerous than any place you’ve been.” Varys walked beside Daenerys, leaning closer and Jorah fell behind respectfully. “The food and low quality conversation has a better chance of killing you than anything else you might encounter.”

“You’ll be there so I need not worry about the latter.” Varys smiled, flattered, and then cut to the core of what Daenerys felt was truly worth her concern.

“Cynical about the  _ miracle _ witnessed in the pit? I daresay no act of God could have left me so uneasy. Decoding the intentions of lions has often occupied my mind to the point of agitation.”

“And now? What do you make of the puzzle that is Cersei Lannister?” Varys glanced ahead at Tyrion, her brother. Jon had refused Cersei’s request for an armistice and she had left. Following her, Tyrion had convinced Cersei to reconsider her position, but Daenerys couldn’t be sure if he had done so in capacity as her Hand or as a member of House Lannister.

“I think that Cersei is a piece that sees herself as the whole picture.” Varys had a habit of speaking in riddles, but his meaning was clear.

“We cannot trust her.” 

“Never, but there is one thing about lions that we mustn’t forget: in the wild it is the  _ females _ who  _ hunt _ and the  _ males _ that  _ patrol _ and  _ protect _ . Cersei has long gone solo.  _ We _ are the pride now.” Eyes squinting against the sun, Daenerys asked the former master of whispers in good humour: 

“What of our  _ alpha _ ? Jon Snow is honest, but not often forthcoming. Tell me, what troubles him?” Varys’s smile was self-satisfied and omniscient.

“Finding a familiar face in King’s Landing. The Lady Brienne,” Varys nodded toward a tall blonde wearing a handsome suit of armour. She had arrived some time before them and joined their party in the pit. Taking the seat to the left of Jon, she had risen to marvel at Daenerys’s dragon and frozen when Clegane had revealed the captive wight. Upon Cersei’s retreat, the Lady had charged after the Lannister soldiers and pulled aside their commander. Demanding that Jaime forget about loyalty, that he speak urgently with his Queen and convince her to reconsider, Brienne had taken a calculated risk, but in the end it had been Tyrion who had delivered. “A formidable woman, but seemingly no match for the one she’s guarding. Lady Stark sent her here on an invitation from one Cersei Lannister.”

“There were to be no others. What could Cersei have planned that required Sansa’s attendance?” Varys’s expression again became complacent. 

“I suspect the letter was fraudulent, your Grace and sent by the Lady of Winterfell herself.”

“For what reason?” 

 

As was the case with Catelyn, Daenerys knew close to nothing of Jon’s sister, beyond what Tyrion had told her: that she too had been sold to strange men, that she had escaped both King’s Landing and enemy rule over her homeland, that she had taken it back from them and even saved Jon from dying on the battlefield. The mere fact of her survival in the face of such adversity painted a better picture than any ancient history. Like Brienne and Cersei, Ellaria and Yara, there was much to be admired in Sansa’s refusal to submit to the will and whims of men.

“I imagine that Lady Stark wished to pursue an avenue outside of her guardian’s approval. Brienne has always been an honourable individual, but the difference between a knight and a Queen, between shielding and leading is knowing that often what is  _ necessary _ can also be  _ beastly _ .” Once the trophy of a Khal, the road to Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains had been long and winding. Every mile of the way had been marked: with a brother murdered, traitors imprisoned, slave masters crucified and enemies, fathers and sons burnt alive. Daenerys’s decisions affected the lives of millions. She had been forced to learn and quickly that there was no way to please all of them.

“Perchance the Lady Brienne’s presence here is no coincidence. Ser Jorah is to escort my Dothraki up the King’s Road. Yet I worry he will know the way as little as any of them.”

“Were Lady Brienne’s words with Jaime Lannister any indication, she and Jorah are as terse and  _ trustworthy _ as one another.” Jorah had once betrayed Daenerys. Hopefully Brienne’s dutiful absence hadn’t allowed anything to happen to Sansa. The North would surely have sent a raven in the event of mutiny. Daenerys’s creasing brows and concerned silence seemed to assure Varys that his observations had hit their mark. He had reminded Daenerys of the worst of Jorah’s mistakes. Yet still she doubted her decision whenever it involved his leaving. “Your Grace, you could have selected no better travelling companions for your Dothraki. The journey may even serve to mellow Ser Jorah’s disposition.”

 

**DAVOS**

 

Jon’s safe keeping weighed heavily upon his mind. He hadn’t become the King by making calculated risks. The man threw himself impulsively at situations without fear of death because he had been into the darkness and come out again. Davos himself had begged the help of an enemy to raise him and often he suspected that his faith alone had been the key to Jon’s reanimation. Following his gut had taken him to treacherous places and Davos’s days of crossing swords were long behind him.

“Clegane, if I may.” Towering bulk of a man, Sandor Clegane had once served as Joffrey Baratheon’s personal guard and earned his nickname of the Hound. Far from King’s Landing, Davos and Jon had encountered him at Castle Black. Following the Brotherhood Without Banners on a journey North, they too had plans to venture beyond the Wall. Informed of the reason, to capture a member of the undead, none had changed their minds and whilst Davos had stayed behind less than half had survived. Clegane had been one of the lucky few and carried their writhing wight to the boat.

“What do you want?” He was known far and wide for his burnt face, his strength and his often offensive candor.

“Come on official business from the King-”

“What does the  _ Bastard _ want?” Only Jon’s enemies dared call him that. Clegane didn’t care for formalities and was unaccustomed to being corrected.

“I’ve gotta proposition. Your company beyond the Wall surely saved lives-”

“Your idiot  _ King _ got himself left behind.” 

As the army of the dead had closed in, the rest of the raiding party had boarded Daenerys’s dragon to safety, whilst Jon had continued swinging and been drowned. Feared dead, against all odds he had returned again and Davos couldn’t bear to lose him a third time.

“ _ Exactly _ . You’d agree what he  _ needs _ is a man willing to  _ fight _ for him,  _ die _ for him, call him out on his more  _ reckless _ decisions. Sharp tongue like yours. Few men stronger. You could carry him under  _ one _ arm.” 

Davos had campaigned for the Iron Bank to support Stannis’s claim to the throne and for Daenerys to heed Jon Snow’s warnings. Clegane was a difficult audience, but he refused to be defeated by a stray mutt with an attitude problem. Jon had lost his wolf, but Davos would be damned if he couldn’t get him a dog.

“My days in service to King’s are long gone,” Clegane was stubborn. In the pit he’d squared up to his brother, Gregor. Another man brought back from the brink, it had been done with science rather than magic. The Cleganes clearly had unfinished business, but whatever was left of the Mountain just wasn’t worth killing. “Surely Winterfell’s the safest place for your _Bastard_. Cersei lit a _fucking_ _bonfire_ for her throne. His own men crowned that fucking _moron_.”

“ _And_ _perhaps_ they’ll regret it when he shows up having pledged fealty to a Targaryen. _Maybe_ they’ll want his sister leading ‘em-” Clegane laughed heartily at the idea. Davos looked around wondering what it was worth to point out that both Daenerys and Cersei were actually women. 

“Northmen are thick as a pig’s shit, but even they wouldn’t choose a _little_ _bitch_ to lead ‘em. Last I saw Arya-” Clegane’s eyes wandered and he shook his head still sniggering “-she could barely mount her own fucking horse.”

“A wise assumption for certain Clegane, but the sister I meant is the elder, Sansa.”

 

A watchdog alerted to intrusion, Clegane’s mug shifted from amusement to quiet alarm. Replaced just as swiftly by veiled disdain, he walked faster muttering nonsensically:

“Wolves don’t pay attention to songbirds.” Davos jogged to follow him and testing the effect he used the name of the King’s sister once again.

“The Lady Sansa…” Clegane averted his gaze akin to a kicked dog. “Acts now as Wardeness of the North until her King returns home.” Clegane smiled and shook his head, sharing again his lack of faith in the fairer sex.

“A  _ girl _ amongst men. Your bastard will return to rebellion.” Though it seemed Clegane and the Lady Sansa were acquainted, his low opinion suggested that he didn’t know Sansa well. 

“A  _ woman _ now actually, capable and clever as they come and loyal to Jon despite his  _ questionable  _ decision making. My only concern is that Northmen might not be as easily seduced by a  _ beautiful _ ,  _ young _ blonde with  _ huge _ dragons. Surely whatever  _ business _ you have in King’s Landing can wait ‘til after we’ve taken on the Night King.” Clegane weighed his options. Glaring into the distance at Jon’s black figure he crossed his arms and sighed:

“The North’s fucking grim…” Davos nodded, resignation setting in, “But there’s no price on my head up there. I’ll watch your idiot King, but I’m not kneeling to any bastards.” Smiling Davos clapped Clegane on the arm and walked away before he could catch him.

“Jon would never ask it of a man of your years! Besides, hounds  _ heel _ don’t they?” Davos whistled and Clegane bellowed after him:

“Fuck off!” Davos would have to watch he didn’t lose the rest of his fingers to a dog’s gnawing.


	3. Idea of Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion secures good company for travels Northward and realises just who was responsible for his imprisonment.

**TYRION**

“A dwarf and a giant arguing on the dock o’ King’s Landing sounds like the opening of a fucking good joke.” Lady Brienne looked away from Tyrion to stare at Bronn. Last Tyrion had seen him, he’d been dressed in fine tunic and leggings as befitting of his new title of Lord of Stokeworth. Now it seemed he’d reverted to a look more akin to what he’d worn back when he’d been an ambitious sellsword. Then Tyrion’s Captain of the Guard, despite the handsome leather jerkin something else was missing: Bronn was unarmed. Though Tyrion didn’t doubt he kept a blade hidden on his person. King’s Landing was no safe haven. Whilst Brienne had stayed at the pit, Bronn had insisted her squire, Podrick join him in drinking, which Tyrion would have much preferred to diplomacy and negotiations with his siblings. Podrick however had never developed Tyrion’s talent for imbibing. Standing beside them, Tyrion’s ex-squire was bent over double and vomiting into the sand. Prior to their arrival and Bronn’s comment on joke openings, Tyrion had already been talking about him. Denied the request to seek Podrick out himself in King’s Landing, Tyrion had found Brienne and been bargaining with her to allow Podrick to join him sailing north. Long journeys after all required wine and good company. The former would have to be rationed whilst the latter had long been lacking. Varys spoke only in codes that needed cracking. Missandei and Greyworm’s love felt often like the only evidence of their emotions. Queen Daenerys too felt somewhat closed to him and the others of her counsel concerned themselves with nothing more than business and war. Tyrion had enjoyed better conversations with dragons. Their home of Dragonstone just had so few books for Tyrion to bury his head in. Pod always answered every question and he had saved Tyrion once. He could do it again.

 

“Podrick!” Appalled by her squire’s condition, Brienne stood with hands on hips. “What-”

“ _ One...drink… _ ” Podrick denied any overindulgence in between his retching. “I swear it...my Lady.”  By all account their meeting hadn’t run long enough for Podrick to have committed the damage attributed to the state he was in. 

“Better out than in!” Bronn slapped Podrick on the back, the flush of his own cheeks evidence that he too had enjoyed his fair share of downed intoxicants. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him and Bronn stuck his thumbs in his belt and leaned back, smirking. “Might’a added som’in to ‘is flagon wi’ intent to pimp ‘im to Lady’s o’ King’s Landing. All of ‘em pleasure starved. Would’a made a killing had he not bloody puked on the first one.”

“ _ Pleasure starved?”  _ Tyrion repeated as though it was scandalous.  _ “ _ Tragic! You used to be such a favourite of married women. I suppose now that you’re a wed and perfumed lord just like their husbands, the element of danger has gone.” Bronn pursed his lips and nudged Podrick.

“Only danger with this one would be fucking tearing-”

“Milord!” Podrick had gone stumbling sideways at his shoving, but had drawn himself up tall to shake his head at Bronn. “Not... in front of...a Lady-”

“He’s not a Lord and I’m not a Lady,” Brienne sighed crossly, “I’ve heard worse than what some lewd sellsword can come up with.” Blunt even when not drunk, Bronn agreed:

“Looking like that, I don’t doubt it,” and Brienne’s hand went to the sword at her hip. Podrick stepped toward Bronn in warning too only to crease at the waist again and purge what was left of his stomach over Bronn’s pristine boots. 

Bronn pushed the squire away cursing and he fell back into the sand at Tyrion’s feet. Stroking Podrick’s head, Tyrion again implored Brienne.

“You see…” Looking away from Bronn, she cast a kind eye over Podrick’s crouched, but compromised figure. “He’ll be of no use to you on the King’s Road. Still you won’t be alone. Instead you’ll have Ser Jorah who I can assure you is a _talented_ _swordsman_ , an _ardent_ _defender of women_ and a mostly _silent_ and _dependable_ travel companion.” 

“I don’t need  _ defending _ .” Tyrion didn’t doubt that Jorah was the one in need of protection.

“You’re telling that to the wrong Lannister man.” Bronn finally silenced Brienne and the hand at her pommel dropped, curling into a fist as she pushed past him to storm in the direction of Flea Bottom. “Woman! Bad form to strike low, innit? Lemme take yeh for drinks. I know the best wine sinks…” Bronn had to skip to keep up and Brienne either didn’t reply or they were out of earshot. Helped to his feet, Podrick wiped the sand from his knees and rear and gripped his stomach.

“Come Podrick.” Allowing him to lean upon his shoulder, Tyrion lead Podrick to one of their rowing boats. “In your condition you’ll barely notice any seasickness. I expect you’ve always wanted to see Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of the greatest dynasty this world has ever known: House Targaryen…”

  
  


Sails fluttering, Daenerys’s ship sat in the bay until break of day when the tide saw fit to take them out again. As the hours passed, Podrick nursed a bucket up on deck and shared with Tyrion tales of his time in service to the Lady Brienne of Tarth. Jaime had once tasked her with finding Sansa. Around the same time Podrick had denied offers to lie about Tyrion at his trial and so it had been safest for him to get out of King’s Landing. He and Brienne had searched the kingdom for the missing Stark sibling, scouring villages and inns and quizzing smiths and chefs for information. Interrupted only by his vomiting, Podrick recounted a winding tale: of lessons learned, riding sores, inns at crossroads, wolf bread, figure of eight knots, lost horses and dangerous men travelling with northern women. Not far from the Vale and not long after Lady Arryn had died, Podrick and Brienne had encountered the Hound and Arya Stark. Armed and with horses, Clegane had denied Brienne’s declarations for the youngest Stark sister. Telling her that he was the one to look out for her, Clegane had refused to step down. Brienne had drawn her sword and kept on swinging, kept on punching until the Hound had gone down and not come back up again. Podrick meanwhile had lost sight of Arya and again she’d gone missing. 

 

Commiserating at another inn, Podrick’s time in King’s Landing had allowed for redemption. Identifying a customer sitting across from them: Petyr Baelish and his travelling companion, the badly disguised Sansa Stark, they had approached them and again Brienne had offered her services. Having recently married the rattled Lysa Arryn, her ‘suicide’ had granted Baelish the position of Warden to the East and Lord of the Vale. Protected at the inn by a dozen men, Baelish had used Brienne’s accent, armour and Lannister weaponry against her. Sansa had chosen the lesser stranger and though Baelish had tried to have them killed, Podrick and Brienne had escaped on stolen horses and followed them. Watching from afar, they’d heard Baelish had arranged another wise pairing. Restoring her title as Lady of Winterfell, Sansa was wed to the son of Roose Bolton. The man who had helped murder her mother, brother and his new wife at their wedding only to then take their home of Winterfell from treacherous Ironborn, had a reputation for cruelty which spanned generations. Under his banners of the flayed man, Brienne had gotten word to Sansa that friends were near should anything happen. Abused every which way, the wife Tyrion had taken an eye off when it mattered had eventually escaped her captor. On the run with another of his playthings, her late father’s ward, Theon Greyjoy, the pair had been half frozen when Brienne and Podrick had found them. 

 

Greyjoy had then left to return home and the three of them had carried on north to find Sansa’s brother, Jon. Aware of their intentions, Ramsay Bolton had sent word to the Wall: insulting and provoking Jon and his wildlings, and demanding the return of his bride. Bolton had vowed to eat Jon’s eyes and to feed the rest of him to his dogs. Not long after Jon had ridden south with an army of crows, wildlings and loyal northmen, but it could never have been enough to defeat the Boltons. In a game of bow and arrow target practice, Bolton had gored the youngest Stark son, Rickon on the battlefield as Jon had charged toward him on horseback. Hand outstretched, he'd been mere feet away from saving his long lost sibling. Incensed and thrown from his horse, he had fought and almost died in his quest for vengeance. In the end it had been Sansa’s ability to utilise her family’s enemies that had saved the day. Calling upon the Knights of the Vale, Jon had survived in debt to Baelish, a man he hated. Sword and shield abandoned and soiled with mud and the dried blood of northmen, he had beaten Ramsay Bolton with his bare hands until Sansa had him imprisoned. Kept not in a dungeon, but the kennels it was said she’d watched with a smile as he was fed alive to his own dogs. 

 

The girl Tyrion had known had slept with  _ dolls _ and her idea of vengeance had involved stuffing sheep shit into mattresses, but even then she’d found the term for dung too vulgar and called it  _ ‘shift’ _ instead. After watching her father lose his head, she’d heard of her brother Robb’s murder and their mother’s decapitation. Losing sleep and shedding weight and tears, she had given up praying and taken to the Godswood only in hopes of being left alone. When she and Tyrion had married, he’d vowed never to hurt her and she’d submitted to him, undressing until he begged her to stop. Snapping at her: “If my father wants somebody to get fucked, I know just where he can start” Tyrion had carried on drinking and left her to go to bed without him. They’d been bonded by their helplessness. At his nephew Joffrey’s wedding, he’d insulted the pair of them with a garish retelling of the War of the Five Kings. Reenacting the deaths of Sansa’s father and brother amongst others, the chosen performers had all been dwarves. When Tyrion had tried to leave, saving his wife from more suffering, Joffrey had doused him with wine and called upon his uncle to act as cupbearer to the King. Taking a goblet from the high table, it’d been tainted with poison, but not by Tyrion. Seized for imprisonment, by the time he’d thought to look for Sansa, she was gone. Afterwards at his trial, a Lord named Holland had been blamed for her kidnapping. Almost drowned by Joffrey and saved at Sansa’s behest, it was said that Holland had thanked the lady with a necklace. A family heirloom he’d told her, one of it’s jewels had contained the poison which had killed the King. A plot far too sophisticated for a drunken man from a house of no consequence, Tyrion knew now: Baelish had framed him. Once a brothel keeper, a council member, a master of coin, his absence from Joffrey’s wedding had gone unnoticed. Yet Littlefinger had seen to it from behind the scenes that capital had exchanged hands. The man had stolen Tyrion’s wife, given her to another and run to her rescue rather than face the wrath of Boltons, but to what end? Tyrion drank and he knew things, but the wine was to be rationed and he could only guess as to what game Baelish and Sansa were playing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've never written a note before...but here goes! 
> 
> Is it just me or is Podrick on everybody's super short list of character's George must not harm under any circumstances?
> 
> Others on my list that's basically the opposite of Arya's one:
> 
> Sandor, Jon, Jorah, Tormund, Sansa, Arya (every Stark who no longer lives).
> 
> Who is on your list of 'do not touch my suns'?


	4. Suffering Of Common Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davos takes Missandei and Greyworm on a tour of their future capital's markets, but she remains haunted by what was revealed in the pit. Drinking with Tyrion, talk turns to love. Bothering Sandor Clegane, the same topic sees Tyrion threatened with a gory death.

**MISSANDEI**

 

Looking back at the King in the North, his aide, Davos Seaworth, the smuggler missing fingers smiled at her from beneath his whiskers. A line of black figures awaited their return at the shore. Breaking the line of Unsullied, one stepped forward to greet their return. Greyworm’s body was stiff from standing and only the intensity of his eyes smiled at Missandei. Immediately inquiring into the outcome of the summit, Missandei listened as the Queen reported their victory and informed Greyworm of plans for his men. Staring at the few who had remained guarding their ships at the beach, each was bronzed and clean shaven, but Missandei saw only Greyworm, again and again. Bodies lean and vascular, she imagined his flesh turned ashen. Hands gripping spears white knuckle tight, she thought only of his skeleton. Next a voice spoke to her, it was neither Greyworm or her Queen, but the smuggler again. A kind man, he suggested Missandei accompany him and Greyworm, who was already going as protection, on a tour of their future capital. Tasked with restocking the ship’s cargo hold for the journey,  first to Dragonstone and then Winterfell, Missandei was grateful for the distraction. Though amongst the rust, wine and mustard raiments of the people of King’s Landing, the three of them stood out in their dark clothing. Davos whispered that the last to wear black had almost brought the crown to its knees with religion and atonement and for the way the people looked, Missandei had wanted to shared with them all the good that Daenerys had planned.

 

At the market, people spoke the common tongue in many accents. Newborn babes screamed abandoned in the mess beneath fish stands. Old men and women begged with shaking hands from under cover of tattered linens. Children were told to “ _ scram!” _ by the owners of stall tables piled high with all manner of nutritious things and sewers overflowed with myriad of foul smelling remains. Far from a stranger to the suffering of common men, for all of her Queen’s longing to return to her homeland, Missandei had expected it to be  _ different _ . Undeterred she had faith in Daenerys, that just as she had done in Astapor and Yunkai and Merreen, eventually the Breaker of Chains would free the city’s inhabitants from oppression. Their current queen, Cersei had said most of them would be better off as members of the undead army and despite her apathy, walking now beneath the red canopies of the city, Missandei could see: infants starving to death, skeletons washed away with the fish bones; the elderly rising for the first time without pain to join the Night King; so many motherless children never growing up as the food they’d needed grew mold and rotted. Mind live with the writhing of maggots, when Davos touched Missandei’s arm, she flinched away and into Greyworm.  Calloused hand gripping her waist, his touch was welcomed and so rare that it seemed forbidden. Fighting the urge to melt into him, she carried on. Listening kindly to Seaworth’s tales of his childhood in King’s Landing, sailing across the Narrow Sea and coming to the aid of kings, they bought what was necessary and took back what they could carry. Purchasing an extra one of everything, Missandei gifted them to the children. Asked if she was wearing black because she was going to a funeral, again Missandei thought of the wight and the Night King and saw the child before her turn grey and wither into bloodthirsty bags of decaying flesh and bone. 

 

Walking fast out of King’s Landing, at the shore, Missandei was glad to board a boat and didn't look back again. Warmed again by touch of Greyworm’s hands as he helped her in, she lingered, holding him. Letting go to push them out, he jumped back in, hands occupied by rowing. Silently staring, he bore them forwards with the help of five men who looked just like him. Missandei wished them all dead, if only it meant saving him and felt suddenly overwhelmed. Blinking and sniffling, Davos offered her a large orange. Fragrant citrus, it was fresh and ripe, warm from the sun and dimpled like skin. Davos inhaled from a handful of peelings.

“The smell takes some getting used teh,” he said and Missandei’s brows furrowed, “King’s Landing.”

“Yes,” she sighed, holding the fruit in her hands and looking at the back of Greyworm’s head, “A city without slaves where people are free to die in poverty. Queen Daenerys may win the her subject’s hearts easily.”

“In the North there’s loyalty, you’ll see. Down South it’s all ambition. Men are sworn mercy, then beheaded. Riots break out o’er bread. Kings are poisoned at their own weddings. Ain’t no starving children or mutiny up there.”  _ Just an army of the undead behind a wall of ice, _ Missandei thought sadly on the exchange: austerity or monsters from dreams? Davos had lied once about the reality of the north, but for all she had seen of it’s King she saw no reason not to believe him. 

At the ship, Jon helped bring them aboard and in unloading the cargo. No doubt lost without Davos, he seemed pleased to see him and requested his help with letter writing. Helping Missandei up onto the deck, the King in the North’s hands were  _ frozen _ and in the hard grey of his eyes she glimpsed a flash of the ice of the Night King’s. Rubbing her skin as he walked away, she looked down once more at Greyworm, but he was one of six brown heads, bowed and working. Busying herself with taking a tray of fresh fruit, dried fish, fermented cheese and wine down to the mess, her arrival was greeted with applause from Lord Tyrion. Beside him, green and pale, another of the King’s friends had been struck down by some vomiting sickness. At the market Missandei had thought of him. Gifting a black drink, comprised of charcoal, honey and lemon, she insisted that it would bind to and flush out whatever ailed him.

“Oh Podrick!” Tyrion exclaimed, “Missandei is an  _ angel _ in the body of a woman!”

“Miss...an...dei…” His friend thanked her weakly. Gripping her hand, unlike Jon’s this man’s was soft and warm. “Unusual name.” 

“So too is Podrick,” Missandei replied smartly and Tyrion nodded.

“Means  _ noble _ and rightly so. Missandei is 'v oice of honey', I believe." She nodded and Tyrion smiled, smugly. "S he is one of the Peaceful People. In her home of Naath, butterflies colour the fields like flowers and men make music rather than war and kill nothing, not even beasts, eating only fruit and never flesh.”

“Sounds like...paradise,” Podrick mumbled and Missandei’s smile was empty as the squire’s stomach. 

“Long gone, dead...but not risen,” she replied sadly, “Compassion for all beings makes an understanding slave. I live free only by the fire and tenacity of my Queen.”

“Don’t we all?” Tyrion uncorked the wine and pushed a second goblet toward her. “ _The dead_ cannot drink Missandei. Best we have as little in common with them as possible. Come on. I propose a toast... _to_ _surviving_.” 

Podrick clinked his infusion. Somewhat bitter, the wine was pleasurable in comparison to what Tyrion’s squire had tasted. Lips black as though with frostbite, Missandei looked away from him, willing some colour back into his skin. Tyrion made to pour more wine, but she held a hand over her cup and shook her head at him. 

“ _The dead_ also do not play drinking games…” Missandei imagined them trying, pouring back wine only for it to leak down their chests or splash onto their boots from out of torn open stomachs. Remembering how Podrick had vomited onto the rude sellsword who had insulted the big woman, Missandei wanted to smile, but no good feeling came. “Tell me Podrick.” The squire looked up at Tyrion with a fondness that warmed the room and Missandei’s hands, “For all of your adventuring and heroism, have you ever truly _loved_ and _been_ _loved_ by someone?” 

“Not yet, my Lord.” His sad smile and hopeful confession spread the warmth into Missandei’s arms, and chest and face. She pressed a palm to her breast and felt her heart beating a strong rhythm. Lord Tyrion drank again as though he envied Podrick his naive.

“And what of your noblewoman, the Lady Brienne?” Was it possible to love and also be lionhearted? Love was the death of duty. Missandei had heard it said and then seen it in action when the King in the North had pledged fealty to her Queen, but would duty rise again under the Night King to devour them?

“Never,” Podrick mumbled earnestly, “Though I suspect she harbours a deep love, it goes unrequited.”

“First impressions count for nothing,” Tyrion sighed and then elaborated, “The lady didn’t at all strike me as a  _ fool _ , but I assure you, the only thing worse than a love ignored is a love returned.” Missandei sighed and moved her hand from over her goblet. Tyrion smiled and poured more wine.

 

**SANDOR**

 

Having left the big bitch, Brienne at the shore, Sandor now found himself on a ship with only beautiful women. Sitting together with the imp of House Lannister and his idiot squire, the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen positively glowed in the dim light of the cabin. Beside her, night sky to her moon, her aide was a golden skinned, foreign woman with tightly coiled ringlets and full lips. She wasn’t smiling and hadn’t once since stepping aboard. Bringing cheese and wine and fruit and things, ale had made its way to Sandor from the hands of the King in the North.

“Aren’t you going to taste it first?” he asked, “That’s what guards do isn’t it? Check for poison?”

“ _ Stupid _ ones. Poison  _ is _ a woman’s weapon...but the last time Cersei left the Red Keep, she was stripped naked and pelted with old fruit. Doubt she’d brave the streets even if it was to kill Ned Stark’s  _ bastard _ .” Jon looked at him and then across the mess at his aide Davos, as though to ask him what he’d been thinking with Sandor’s appointment. Knocking together their flagons, Sandor toasted merrily: “Cheers,  _ my Royal Highness _ .” 

“ _ Jon _ will do,” he replied sternly, sipping at his drink whilst Sandor knocked his back. “And what do I call  _ you _ ?” Sandor didn’t think he’d been asked such a thing in a lifetime. For so long he had been the Hound, King Joffrey’s dog. Now that he’d chewed through his leash and lost his collar, he could barely remember what his original owners had called him.

“My name,” he requested and Jon nodded his leave.

“So be it, Clegane.”

“‘ _ Fuck the King _ !’ you said.” The imp was at his side or rather his kneecap, quoting his final words to Joffrey. At the Battle of the Blackwater, after a lifetime of protecting him, as the bay had burnt green and men’s skin had peeled from their bones in reams, Sandor had turned his back on everything. Gone to grab Sansa, she had sang, but refused to come and Joffrey hadn’t lived long without his protection. The boy king had surely deserved what had happened to him, but what of Sansa? He had left her there, unaware of what fate the victors would deal her. Though she had survived and made it home, Sandor couldn’t bring himself to find out how that had become so. “Nobody did, of course.  _ Fuck the king _ . Poisoned before he could even feel a woman. Might have solved all of his problems.”

“Didn’t solve any of your problems.” The only thing the dwarf had ever learned to cap was upward growth. For all his animosity and arrogance, Tyrion Lannister was another who had deserved all that had happened to him. Though his intolerable father was dead and he served a new, fuckable Queen so it had seemingly all worked out for the Imp. 

“No...but bound to happen if you pay for it,” he said raising his goblet, lowering it again, “You see as _my_ _family_ know: money _runs_ _out_. What they don’t have a clue about is that _love_ can spring up from _nothing_. Rare and priceless. My _father_ _tricked_ _me_ into loving a _whore_. The joke was that I never thought to stop.” The Imp laughed at himself, spilling wine down his chin. “Have you ever been _in_ _love_ , Clegane?”

“ _ Fuck off. _ ” 

Of the men aboard, the King in the North was his favourite because he wasn’t one for talking.

“For _all_ the intel gathered in King's Landing on _perversions_ ,” the Imp began smiling knowingly and Sandor’s fists curled in warning, _“Never_ did I hear a bad word about _you_. Nor did you give me reason to. You always did right by my intolerable nephew. Wise to _run_ when you did.” Sandor glared down at the Imp wondering how hard he'd have to squeeze to silence him. “ _Obviously_ the Blackwater was won without _you_ , by my _father_ , Tywin. He stole the glory and all I got was _this_ scar.” The Imp’s face was halved by a diagonal pink line from temple to opposite jawline. Though his brow had split, he was lucky to have had access to such a talented surgeon. Sandor hadn't been. Burns were not as easily treated as skin sliced open. “Nothing on yours of course.” Drink made the Imp bold and nostalgic. Sandor wouldn’t usually have stood for it, but they were in close quarters and he was Hand to a Dragon Queen. “You know _I killed my father_.” Sandor hadn’t, but for the way he spat his name it was far from surprising. “Often I feel badly about it, but I’ve realised: I did this world a _service_. Now you should too. Hear it from me: killing your own _family_ is like saying: “ _fuck_ _the_ _King_ ”, but instead of a King you’re insulting the _Gods_. Lannister may yet die with my mess of a generation and the Clegane name can die with you. Do not come North. _Go and conquer your Mountain._ ” Laughing at his own joke, an old one too overused to humour anyone, the Imp realised with a sad smile that his wine was gone.

“I'd pay to watch you be torn in two by lions.”

“None of those where we're going, Clegane.” The Imp had always used Sandor’s name rather than his nickname. “Better you put your money on some dragons. Though I hope for your sake that they eat me  _ raw _ and don't bother with any  _ fire _ for cooking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever start writing and a new ship sprouts like a weed and you've no idea where it came from, but you like it?
> 
> Missandei/Podrick? What do you say? (I think I'm joking...)
> 
> *pretends to be Oprah* "LOVE! Check under your seats. LOVE for EVERYONE!"
> 
> Definitely what GRRM would do. He never breaks hearts or ruins lives...
> 
> Oh and Tyrion is gonna annoy Sandor for the rest of this series so enjoy that!


	5. Lie Of Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragon's discussing last moments, eunuchs talking about acceptance and Daenerys lying to herself.

**JON**

 

The ship was moving again, drawn out of the bay by the soft lapping of the ocean. Night was falling and the mess buzzed with warmth and the thick aroma of wine. Dark plums, black pepper and something akin to autumn hung in the air as people sat apart talking in a low hum. Jon had tuned his company out on account of letter writing, but the words just wouldn’t come.

“Writer’s block?” Smelling the Queen of Dragons before he saw her, everything about Daenerys was foreign and yet welcome. Her scent was that of fruit which was left to ripen on the branch, flowers which bloomed only across the Narrow Sea, earthy oils extracted from the roots of tall grass and a dark, but sweet resinous tree sap. Since his death, Jon had stopped smelling of anything. Standing as was customary, Daenerys nodded her head at him and Jon sat down again, parchment fluttering onto the floor. Both reaching for it, their hands brushed for a time that felt stretched and viscous. Even when separated Jon felt that he and Daenerys were connected. “Sending word to your sister?” She read from the nearly blank letter, smiling fondly. “Such _precious_ script.” Blushing Jon countered her humiliating observation with:

“These hands were not made for writing.” Daenerys looked across at them where they hung clenched at his sides, shook her head with a lick of her lips and passed the letter back to him. 

Both sat down, Daenerys opposite and lit from behind by a gently swaying lamp.

“Sansa is much better,” Jon sighed, took another sip of his ale and frowned. Daenerys took up his flagon and their fingers brushed with a bristling electricity. Her lips where his had just been, Jon longed to be that cup, to be held and tasted, to be consumed by Daenerys just like ale.

“You underestimate your sister,” Daenerys said and Jon wondered what she had heard of her. “Swords serve men and Brienne, but Sansa... _She is woman_ and will not be stopped by a little snowfall and squabbling northmen. _Valar dohaeris._ ” Jon raised a brow at her and she translated. “All men must _serve_.” Jon nodded and looked about the ship at the motley crew who had chosen to lay down their lives for Daenerys. The only loyal man Sansa had met was Jon.

“I cast no doubt upon my sister’s ability,” he said, defensive of his attitude towards women in Daenerys’s presence, “Fully inclusive of Sansa’s capacity to... _perish_.” Daenerys smiled softly and held her own hands. She too had lost everyone she had loved and carried on without them.

“Yes. _Valar morghulis_ . All men must die...but not _you_.” Jon’s wounds throbbed beneath his jerkin and his breath came in short bursts as though his throat was constricting. Flat on his back on the snow carpeted courtyard of Castle Black, Jon had once stopped breathing.

 

Lured from his chambers, his desk had been littered with papers and Jon’s head had hung heavy with decisions. Lied to about the reappearance of his missing uncle Benjen, instead Jon had found a cross. Marked with the slur ‘traitor’ and surrounded by a crescent of men armed with daggers, it had been Jon’s long time enemy who had struck first. Alliser Thorne, his Master of Arms, vindicated in his hatred, had pulled Jon forward and plunged a blade into his gut. Countless men had followed, stabbing until Jon had stopped feeling. Once he’d crumpled to his knees, the crowd of men had parted for Olly. A boy of barely four and ten, much like Rickon, his family had been slaughtered by wildlings and he had run to the Wall to warn them of what was coming. Chosen as Jon’s steward, he had trained him, but his decision to allow the wildlings through the gate had lost Jon the respect of many, including young Olly. Casting the final blow, the boy’s contempt had pulsed from him, but his aim had deviated. Missing Jon’s heart, instead it’d been his lung that was punctured. Filling with blood whilst the rest of him had been emptying, last Jon heard had been the footsteps of his men as they’d turned their backs on him. After that there was nothing and Jon became aware that the silence was not around, but _inside_ of him. He could feel his own mind scrambling, synapses firing, the same way a deaf person could see somebody’s lips moving. His vision darkened, but not gradually like the sky at dusk, rather a single candle extinguished. Teetering in that darkness on some precipice, Jon had simply slipped.

 

“I died and I will again. That _darkness_ just ain’t no place for any more women that I love.”

“Truly,” Daenerys asked quietly with a stare that spoke volumes of loved ones she hoped to see again, “There was _nothing_?” She knew Jon was no liar, that he wished for his words to convey the truth of the moment and yet he couldn’t take away her dreams of reunion.

“As I was bleeding...in the snow, I remember a _warmth_ , but it was probably my own. I remember...a woman...that I loved saying my name.” In truth, Jon had heard nothing, but he had _felt_ something. Even after he couldn’t see, he had _sensed_ the burning grey of his father’s eyes. One moment hard as stone, the next fogged with tears, Jon had felt his _gaze_ upon him, the _pressure_ of his arms around him and all fear, all cognizance had gone. He’d known nothing, felt nothing, been nothing. “Sansa…” The only love his sister had ever felt had been from her family and now that most of them were gone, Jon wanted so much to make her happy in a way that he knew only a true love could. “She wouldn't hear anything. That can’t happen.” Daenerys blinked and looked away from him, hands parting to wipe her eyes.

“I for one am glad that you didn't follow the last woman that called your name…” Standing, her hand lingered by Jon’s, fingers brushing the tip of his black feather quill. “Tell Sansa...that you are _well_ , that we sail with _best_ _tidings_ and that you will explain all once safe at _home_ in Winterfell. Sign off not with titles, but with _love_ and she will welcome us.”

 

**DAENERYS**

 

Inhabitants of Daenerys’s ship seemed divided. Half slept unperturbed and lulled by the motion of the waves whilst the rest were tossed in their beds by a heavy swell of intrusive thoughts and bad dreams. She had dismissed Jorah and he had returned to his cabin, which smelled of the ointment he applied to the scars from his greyscale wounds. She could imagine him, stripping down and massaging the emollient serum into his skin, thinking of the expanse of his markings, the intensity of his suffering as nought, but a drop in the ocean of what he would give to serve her. Reminded of explaining ‘valar dohaeris’ to Jon Snow, she thought once more of his face as he had spoken of death. For all the dangers she had encountered and survived, thanks mostly to Jorah, only once had Daenerys ever been forced to accept the imminence of her own passing. In Merreen she had freed slaves by the thousands, crucified their masters as punishment for their compliance and seen backlash from nobleman. Naming her a foreign conqueror responsible for the death of their livelihoods, she had planned to marry one of them in hopes of allegiance and hosted a day of games in celebration. Besieged by mutinous assassins named the Sons of the Harpy, her Merrenese fiance had fallen. Daenerys and those she held most dear had been cornered. As their blades crept ever closer, Deanerys had taken Missandei’s hand and closed her eyes.

 

Ready to die rather than become a slave again, no loved one’s voice had come, not her first husband Khal Drogo calling her his ‘moon and stars’, or Daario whispering ‘yes my Queen’, nor Jorah’s gravelly voice rasping softly, ‘khaleesi...’ All Daenerys had experienced had been the flapping of wings and the burning heat of unnatural flames. When she had stepped into Drogo’s funeral pyre, the fire had licked at her skin and her dress had burnt to ash. Logs surrounding her had blackened and snapped and the dragon eggs in her lap had glowed and cracked. Daenerys had survived a light so bright that it burned everything. Jon had come back from a darkness as deep as water beneath thickest ice. When she heard the rapping of Greyworm’s knuckles upon Missandei’s door, Daenerys allowed herself to wish that it had been Jon knocking at hers.

 

Leaving her chambers rather than overhear their sweet whisperings, Daenerys walked about the ship on tiptoe. From down below she overheard snoring and guessed it was the towering burnt man, Sandor Clegane. The cargo hold was the only place without a fire. Though no bed would have been long enough to fit him. Lamps still burning in the mess, Varys drew a blanket over a drunken Tyrion. Head in the lap of his worse for wear young squire, Podrick, both were lightly wheezing, but soundly sleeping. Eyes snapping upwards, footsteps on deck alarmed him. Nobody should have been wandering there in such bad weather. Rising to look out, she followed him and saw the Ironborn heir, Theon Greyjoy. Bracing himself upon the ship’s edge, he was staring into the endless darkness. Carrying a lantern, Lord Varys passed by her without notice.

“Come, my boy,” he said over the roaring waves, a soft hand upon Greyjoy’s arm. Flinching he spun. Back arched and hand grabbing Varys by the wrist, he accused him of some seduction.

“Fuck! You into men?” Varys twisted his arm in Theon’s grip to hold him back.

“Afraid not,” he said, softly squeezing until Greyjoy released him. “Particularly not _Ironborn_ . About as much _man_ as _we_ are. No offence.” One eunuch looked incredulously at the other.

“That was _all_ offence.” Varys shrugged and left the deck, talking as he went because he knew that Greyjoy would follow him. Following them with soft bare footsteps back toward the mess, in the darkness, wrapped in a blanket, Daenerys enjoyed a brief moment of going unseen.

“So it was,” Varys agreed with him, “but you'll freeze out there and we're headed North as it is.” Theon nodded like a guilty child. Varys had always had a soft spot for broken things and revelled in offering guidance. “Take your comforts where you can find them. Know that there are less _cocks_ on this boat than there are _men_ , that of the two _women;_ one loves a man for his _heart_ and the other loves a man who has _nothing_ because neither _sex_ or _dominance_ are nearly as rewarding as _pure_ _acceptance_.  With that you're granted the power to do _anything_. Should you find a person who accepts you mind, body and spirit, who would fight and die to grant you freedom, best you extend them that same constancy. ” 

Daenerys had gasped and both turned to her, but quickly wrote it off as the wind. Though they continued talking, Theon asking Varys who if ever had accepted him, Daenerys walked away because Varys had spoken out of turn. Missandei _was_ irrevocably and painfully in love with Greyworm, but Daenerys would _never_ be fool enough to fall again. Not for the way Jon shortened her name to ‘Dany’ and said it with the same ardour a child might call for their daddy. Not for the way his eyes flitted from the warm grey of smoke embers to the rough onyx of the rock formations at the foundations of Dragonstone. Daenerys would not give in to their depths. In the mess, she had overheard Tyrion toasting to simply _surviving_ and that was what Daenerys had always been doing. Having wed once for an army and then for an allegiance, the army had fled the moment Drogo had died and her second husband had been murdered by his own assassins. Daario she had bed for _convenience_ , to utilise his _strengths_ and though he had loved _being_ hers when Daenerys had said goodbye to him, she had felt nothing. When Jon had left for the raid beyond the Wall, she had worried more for Jorah, but he had made it back whilst Jon had fallen. When his black horse had emerged from between the frozen treetops, her heart had dropped the height of the wall as though the cord which winched the cage from the bottom to the top had been cut short. The map of scars upon Jon’s body had reminded her of how Drogo’s pride had seen him killed by a flesh wound. Sitting by Jon’s bed had reminded her of Drogo’s sickness. In her fear of being alone, Daenerys had begged a witch for Drogo’s life. Having been raped by his bloodriders and forced to watch as her temple burned, in vengeance she had transformed Drogo into a comatosed shell of a man. Showing Daenerys just what life was worth when everything else was stolen, Daenerys had been forced to smother him.

 

Blinking back tears at memory of her own weakness, Jon had finally woken and his first thought had been only of _her_ suffering. Racing to save him beyond the Wall, they had gained a wight and Daenerys had lost one of her children, her dragon Viserion. In gratitude for all she had risked, Jon had pledged his fealty and held her hand because unlike Drogo and Daario, he had no pride at all. He had died and been dragged from a darkness so deep it hid the only woman he had ever loved. Surviving was what his life had become too. His only concern was his family’s happiness and to always be honest, but Daenerys just couldn’t. Jon had told her she was deserving of devotion and she’d released his hand and demanded that he rest. A lie of omission served everyone. False promises served as comfort only to children or the dying, in times when there were no answers to questions. Where they were all headed, death spread like greyscale and the only cure was fire and fighting. Should weapons fail them, Daenerys knew the last thing she’d hear in the darkness and that certainty felt safer than the possibility of having her heartbroken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I love Jon? 
> 
> When I was born my nana knitted me a Superman doll for whatever reason and I've always loved Superman. Even though he's the most boring superhero, to me he's just so precious and perfect and nobody should hurt him.
> 
> YEAH...so that's how I feel about Jon. Seriously though, has he ever put a foot wrong? (Screw you Alliser Thorne.)
> 
> Also Varys and Theon and Greyworm being no-balls buddies? No? Yes? I just want everyone to be friends...


	6. Forgiven, But Not Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrival at Dragonstone. Jorah tries to cockblock Jon and gets served by Davos. Theon continues to question his identity so Jon tells him to get a grip, be everything and do one if his sister needs him. Later becomes the sassyKing who knocks.

**JORAH**

 

Upon their arrival in Dragonstone, Khaleesi seemed subdued and the mood was shared by her aide, Missandei. Passengers alighted and climbed the winding walkway up to to the castle. Freshening up in light rooms with vaulted ceilings, all were warned not to get comfortable. Greyworm saw to it that ships underwent repairs. The King in the North spoke at length with a young smith about how much dragonglass had been mined and turned into weapons. As the crates were loaded, Daenerys watched from the high vantage point of her meeting room. Calling upon her counsel once the necessary work was done, all gathered within the open chamber. The King in the North moved the carved totems into position on Daenerys’s map of Westeros as the rest watched in silence. Outside gulls shrieked and the waves lapped the cliffs. Daenerys’s eyes remained focused upon Jon Snow’s small, rough hands and his full pink lips. Explaining how best to make the most of travel to his Northern home, Jorah knew already that the Dothraki would ride hard upon the King’s Road. Set to arrive in Winterfell by the fortnight, it was decided that the others would sail to White Harbour and meet Jorah and the bloodriders before Castle Cerwyn. Knowing that between the only northern port and the region’s stronghold there was 300 miles of open moor, rocky passes and close woodland, that hatred for House Targaryen coloured the land like heather, that any man would be named legend for killing ‘the conqueror’, Jorah advised Daenerys again to _fly_ from White Harbour.

 

The others listened to his fears, but none were willing to accept that their Queen could be vulnerable. Standing stiff and contemplative, nobody spoke a word, but The King in the North who was quick to counter Jorah’s suggestion. Offering support for Daenerys’s final decision, he impressed the importance of appearances on the success of new allegiances. Waiting for Daenerys to speak, Jorah realised that whilst Jon could lead, he could not lie. For the look in his eyes and the way he said ‘together’ as though that was what he and the Queen had always been, Jorah knew that Jon too had fallen for Daenerys. Turning to Jorah, she corrected his assumption that she had come to Westeros to _conquer_ anything.

“I’m coming to save the North,” she told him, quietly commanding and Jorah looked away whilst she turned to Jon as though he and his land were synonymous. Declaring that they would, as per Jon’s suggestion, ‘sail together’, Jorah accepted the slight in sight of all of them, but failed to hold his tongue. Though half had left the room, he lingered in hopes Daenerys might heed reason over her clear affection for Jon Snow.

“Khaleesi please-” Davos, the fingerless, smuggling onion ‘knight’ interrupted him once again.

“The North’s not as it was when you _fled_. Men don’t _sell_ their own, Mormont and a _small_ _girl_ , more _valiant_ than you've ever been, now leads Bear Island.” Jorah opposed the attack upon his person with reminders of his selflessness and vigilance.

“ _My_ _Queen_ survived two failed assassination attempts because of _me_. It only took one to end _him_ because he’s got _nobody_.” The dark eyes of Jon Snow glinted like struck fire steel.

“ _Honestly_ ,” Varys spoke without removing his arms from his sleeves, “One of those assassination attempts was set in motion by _you_. Had Snow been privy to a mutiny surely he would have saved himself the trouble too.”

“Spider, you wove that web-” 

“ _Enough_ ,” Daenerys’s voice rose over them like a dragon’s wing, “of _scheming men_ and _not_ so ancient history. All is forgiven, but not _forgotten_ .” Varys gulped and nodded, looking at a blinking Tyrion. Jorah and Jon dropped their glaring gaze and Davos cleared his throat and ran his maimed hand over his beard. “My decisions will not be swayed by _bickering_ . You will lead the Dothraki. We will sail as _one_.”

 

**JON**

 

Like his father, Jorah Mormont was wise and dutiful, cautious and honourable. He too had learned how to follow, but he refused to allow Jon to lead. Jeor Mormont had been stabbed in the back and his son had looked at Jon like that was just what he’d done when Queen Daenerys had chosen to sail with him. It was obvious that Jorah was in love with her and Jon couldn’t blame him, but she didn’t care about the feelings of men. Speaking with Greyworm, Daenerys moved to stand by the fire. Grinding his jaw and flexing his hands, Jorah turned to Lord Tyrion. Asked what his strained expression and silence meant, the dwarf briefly assured him that he was simply too hungover to string a sentence together. Irritated by their incompetence, by Jorah’s implication that Jon’s men lacked loyalty, he stormed from the meeting with Davos beside him. A man followed them calling Jon’s name. Davos turned first, fists clenched as though thinking it might be Mormont, but Jon had known that voice all his life. Standing by Daenerys’s throne, Theon begged an audience and Davos left them. Expressing his respect for how Jon had refused to compromise his principles in King’s Landing, that he hadn't willingly deceived Cersei, Theon named his honesty a risk. Formal and uncomfortable in the traitor’s presence, Jon impressed the importance of transparency amongst allies. Unable to meet his gaze, Theon became suddenly like water, like the surface of a lake rippling as it was hit by rain. Speaking of Jon with the same inferiority he had always felt under Robb, Jon assured him that any vision which implied he had known only victory was a fantasy, that he too harboured his fair share of regret. Theon brought up his own haunting misgivings and Jon agreed: there was no competition. He had and would never betray his own, but like Jon, Theon had never known who he truly was.

 

Raised at Winterfell with the Stark children, neither of them had ever been one of them. Taken prisoner to punish Baelon Greyjoy for his rebellion, Ned Stark had treated Theon as his own son as much as he had Jon, but unanswered questions had eaten away at him. Driven to go looking for the affection of his true father, Theon had overthrown their home in his name. Staging the murder of Bran and Rickon, he had caused everything that lead to Bolton rule over Winterfell and the ensuing battle to reclaim it that had so crushed Jon. Still he reminded himself: when it mattered Theon had remembered where he belonged. Incapable of saving himself from Ramsay Bolton, he had risked everything to help Sansa and that wouldn’t be forgotten. In the echoing throne room, Jon told Theon that whilst he had _betrayed_ _their_ _father_ , he had ‘never lost him’. There was no need for him to _choose_ what he was. Theon could be both Ironborn and a northern son. It was what Ned Stark would have said, and so Jon offered his forgiveness. Theon looked him in the eye for the first time since they’d been stupid children. Swallowing tears, he told him of his own sister Yara and how she was the only one who had ever tried to save him from the Boltons.

“She needs me now,” Theon said and Jon thought of _his_ sister, Sansa: how she had swallowed her pride and called upon their enemies to save _his_ life. Imagining her now in Winterfell alone with that same man, his smug face reminding her daily of what she’d been forced to suffer, Jon asked Theon:

“Then why are you still talking to me?”, mostly because he wanted to kill someone. Charging away, he wished that the man who had harmed his sister Petyr Baelish would be gone by the time he returned. Unfortunately Sansa’s wise actions had indebted them to that scum. Jon also wanted to believe that Theon would do as Jon could not, but for look in his eyes he didn’t think he had it in him. The fact was that Ned Stark’s foster son _and_ his bastard were dickless cowards both of them.

 

Endeavouring like Theon to be gutless no more, that night when the Targaryen ship had finally set sail for home, Jon stood outside of the door of another to whom he owed his life to and gathered the courage to knock. Daenerys opened and for the look on her face, she hadn’t been expecting him. Something in this wounded Jon. _Had she thought her feelings unrequited?_ he wondered, or _Did I imagine everything? Is her practiced solemnity not a mask? Is the softness I’ve glimpsed mere echoes of who she was long in the past?_  Eyes locked upon hers, Jon wished to tell Daenerys that though they’d both hurt, the string that he felt connecting them was strangling him, that he’d suffer everything again if only it brought him close to Daenerys Targaryen. Neither said anything, but Jon felt sure that their lungs and hearts were working in unison. Daenerys opened her door and Jon stepped in as though pulled by that invisible string.

  
By candlelight, the Queen stared at him and Jon wiped his mouth realising that he had never been quite this alone with her before, that her cabin was a private place and she had let him in. Gesturing for him to take a seat, Jon began to doubt what he had done. Then he could _smell_ her behind him and her hands were undoing the straps of his armoured jerkin.  Jon reached to take her hand in his and pressed the palm to his lips. Pulling him to his feet, she returned his kiss with a nervous domineering that Jon didn’t believe in. Out of his tunic and unlacing his breeches, Daenerys opened her heavy coat. Jon stopped kissing, but not to take her in. A hand on either side of her face, he pressed his body into her and carried on soft and slow because he didn’t want to rush anything.  Stripped of their clothes, still Daenerys laid him eagerly upon the bed as though in her head she could see the the tragedy looming, that their union was a reckless decisions. Jon held her tight as reminder of what was present and took control of everything. Kissing fervently in case this was all the time available to them, Jon could barely breathe and his heart was racing. Pausing to stare into violet eyes, Daenerys’s chest rose and fell under his. Legs parted, she straddled him, small hands on his arms and full lips swollen from kissing him. The wounds which had killed Jon throbbed and only now did he understand why he’d survived them. Daenerys was staring back as though she too was aware of how close they had come to missing one another. Jon had never wanted to be the King in North, but he knew that he would go to war to be Daenerys’s everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a tiny scene in the show and this is my mind filling in the gaps. 
> 
> I love Jorah. He's like a little puppy and Daenerys is a cat person. I dunno where the Davos vs Jorah animosity came from, but it seemed natural? I mean Jorah clearly thinks that rules exist to be bent if not broken, whilst Davos let a dude cut off his fingers for SAVING HIS LIFE...
> 
> And finally Jon and Dany get it on. In the show their love felt kinda bland, but they're so made for one another. Their struggle isn't with each other, it's with circumstance and as somebody in a 10 year relationship with a sailor: I GET THAT. (Unlike Jany, we are not lowkey related...)


	7. Worth Dying For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dothraki road trip with Jorah and Brienne. 'The Westerosi Pie Presents: Dirty Knights'.

**BRIENNE**

 

The hundreds of miles of road which connected the North with the South reminded Brienne of once escorting a very different sort of man. Though he’d been a knight and a Westerosi native, the Dragon Queen’s foreign horse lords were just as untoward. Fascinated by the wheat fields surrounding the crownlands, they raced their horses through the ‘golden grass’. Jorah Mormont only laughed. Far from as silent as Tyrion had predicted, Mormont spoke often, if only in Dothraki. Absorbing their infantile awe for his homeland, he shared the the uses for the main staple grain of Westeros: bread with salt, the boiled porridge frumenty with butter and honey, fish tarts, lemon cakes, kidney pie and strong ale. Apparently no such things existed in Essos. There Brienne was told things were made from _ground_ _grass or nutmeal_. Fresh fruit and meat were delicacies and lame horses became _dried_ _snacks_. Thankful that none of their mounts had fallen during their travels, the only softness Brienne observed in their brutish riders was in their well groomed hair and the soft gratitude with which they spoke to their steeds. Similarly Mormont’s brooding bordered often on the point of rudeness. Though Brienne suspected she’d provoked his detachment simply by denying help dismounting, she soon began to miss her polite squire, Podrick. Accommodating to the point of passivity, he was barely more than a boy and longed to become a knight. Whilst Jorah Mormont was a man now old enough to know that fighting for a cause was the best way to end up scarred.

 

Asked how life had led him back to Westeros after so long, Mormont’s vague answer was only: ‘a Queen with dragons’. Though tight with his words in the common tongue, he spoke at length with the Dothraki men as though if he only thought in their language, he could continue to feel as foreign. Camped for the night before crossing the Trident, he shared how their Queen’s brother had fallen there, how the red rubies which studded Rhaegar’s armour had been lost to the river. Losing a bet to go diving for the jewels, two young riders gave a new meaning to the term Dothraki screamers by diving naked into the freezing water. Mormont roared at their foolishness and for the way his wizened face creased and dimples dented his whiskered cheeks, Brienne couldn’t help but laugh, suspecting that neither of them had found reason to do so for a long while. Resolve breaking under moonlit skies, Mormont eventually shared the tale of how a northern son had ended up in service to a Targaryen. Though all Brienne had known of him involved selling slaves, running from punishment and spying, she found herself respecting Mormont’s honesty, his commitment to redemption. Despite her failings, Brienne had never betrayed anyone, yet she and Jorah had much in common: both originated from small islands, were single children, had sought to serve greatness, had travelled kingdoms top to bottom searching for those gone missing, had seen dark magic at work, beaten Jaime Lannister (Mormont had unseated him at a tourney in Lannisport), fought bears, guarded royals and grown up wanting to be knights. Impressed by Brienne’s ability to keep an oath,  eventually she too had learned the lengths to which Mormont had gone to reclaim his dignity: from kidnapping Tyrion, to navigating Old Valyria, taking on the Stonemen, then gladiators and masked assassins, enduring a long trip on horseback into enemy territory, banishment, flaying himself living to be cured of greyscale and raiding beyond the Wall and almost falling from the back of a dragon. Life in exile had surely changed him.

“You’re not quite a bear in hibernation,” Brienne told him, “More of a snake that has shed its skin?” Mormont nodded his appreciation and always a gentleman, expressed gratitude for the compliment insisting that he was no longer poisonous.

Next Mormont offered his hand, Brienne accepted and he spoke less in Dothraki, and instead answered any question she might have had about them. Speaking at length about their customs, Jorah explained how they believed in a ‘Great Stallion’ or as he translated:

“Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres,” and even their guttural language sounded almost precious in his accent. Soft and southern, it served as proof that Jorah Mormont had been too long away from home. Brienne wondered if her own voice would soon become northern, whether the Targaryen Queen would have been trilingual had she been raised in King’s Landing, whether Sansa’s true voice would return, whether she would recover from all that had happened to her...Oblivious to Brienne’s wondering, Mormont only carried on speaking:

“The Dothraki believe that their deity, the Great Stallion will one day mount the world. The stars in the night sky are his ‘khalasar’. When Dothraki die, bodies are burnt allowing their souls to rise to the ‘nightlands’ and there they ride with their ancestors forever…” For the way Jorah had spoken of his dead father Jeor, and at thought of Brienne’s drowned older brother Galladon, of her two younger sisters born too soon, dead before a dozen moons, of her own mother consumed by grief, Brienne found some peace in the Dothraki’s tenets. The ultimate judgement prescribed by the Gods of the Seven and the Lord of Light’s warnings: ‘the night is dark and full of terrors’ had always left her cold and rife with cynicism. Though for a long time, her dreams had rung with a man's screaming, bears roaring and the crunch of a fallen warrior tumbling to the bottom of a cliff face, lying beside an exiled knight and surrounded by snoring ‘savages’, Brienne felt safe. As her eyes drifted to a close and she dozed, the sounds of horses snorting and Mormont talking in almost a whisper permeated her consciousness like a lullaby:

“Dothraki see the moon as a goddess. She is wife to the sun and everything of importance must be done beneath a starry sky so their mother might watch over them...”

 

Though Brienne had been too young to remember her mother’s passing, the absence of a strong female influence had always stung. When she had met Catelyn of House Stark, she had longed to hope that her own mother would have been such a strong woman. Yet Brienne hadn’t been able to save either of them...and it seemed that despite their lunar deity, the Dothraki treated the fairer sex with as much respect as the men of the Iron Islands. Often whilst talking they would look long and hard at Brienne and close in with their horses in a way that would have been intimidating to another woman. Mormont would cut them off with a look of utmost warning, spitting something which sounded scathing and though apologising for their derogatory remarks, would refused to translate them.

“They are a primitive civilisation. For generations Dothraki have answered to no one, reaved and raped, taken slaves, burnt temples and stolen the icons of other religions. They are a superstitious people governed by omens and raised upon horror stories of the ocean as a ‘poison water’. Yet when they saw Daenerys Targaryen they dropped their living, their Khals and their lands to follow a foreign woman home to Westeros.” Told of how Jorah’s Queen had come to lead such men, Brienne could understand why such a vision had inspired their devotion. A small Queen with hair bright as moonlight, she’d burnt their leaders alive inside a temple and declared survivors as her bloodriders from the back of dragon. To Brienne that sounded as much of a legend as their Great Stallion, a story to tell children: The Dragon That Held The Moon In The Shape of a Woman.

 

At the Inn at the Crossroads silence fell when Brienne and Jorah stepped in. Accustomed to attracting curious glances, for once in her life nobody was looking at Brienne. Manned by a half dozen Dothraki, the customers took in their long braids, curved blades and bronzed skin. Mouths dropping open, hands left cutlery to reach for sword pommels. The Dothraki stood firm and glaring as though daring just one to try them. Smile strained Mormont held his breath desperate for a drink after so long riding. Last Brienne had stopped at the Inn with Podrick, they’d received a friendlier reception. On the hunt for Sansa, Brienne had asked around if anybody had seen her. An affable, rotund little cook had told her that the only Stark he’d seen was her sister and his tip off had led Brienne to finding Arya. A dangerous man who had claimed to watch over her, the Hound had refused to relinquish his guardianship and gone down swinging. By the time Brienne had managed to defeat him, Podrick had lost sight of the girl and she was gone. Soon after her hapless squire had misplaced their horses too and they’d been forced to stop at yet another inn. It was there that fate had seen them finally crossing paths with their chosen Stark, but like her sister, Sansa had refused Brienne’s service. Though in the time since she had accepted and made it home, their road to Winterfell had been so long and punishing. All had been changed by the experience, and yet back at the Inn again, the same young man who had told Brienne about Arya broke the silence with his endless talking.

 

“ _You_ again!” he said and she could have kissed him, “And who are these... _strapping_ gentleman?” Dwarfed by the Dothraki, the cook smiled and gulped. “That’s some ‘air. Not Starks t’ be sure, but tales o’ battles n’ the howling of wolves o’er in that Winterhell lemme know ya’ found ‘em. You’se a long way from ‘ome mind.” Brienne narrowed her eyes at him and sighed. “What ails ya?” Kohled eyes widening, the bloodriders glanced at one another.

“Ale!” one yelled repeatedly, recognising the word from Jorah’s little plant life lessons. Another grabbed the cook and threw him over his shoulder as the others cheered. Calls to decorum falling on deaf ears, men all around jumped to their fee. Brienne sighed and drew her sword as Jorah gripped her wrist. Calling a stop to the commotion he said:

“Vos. Voschecci,” without even raising his voice, like a tough loving father disciplining excitable children. The young man was put down and stumbling and dizzy, Mormont righted him with a whispered: “Just drinks and we’ll be gone.” Smiling shyly and gesturing to the other inhabitants to sit again, the cook began counting to be sure he returned with the correct number of flagons. Feet shuffling back under tables, necks still craned to catch a glimpse of the foreign men and the giant woman. Hand hovering at her hip, Brienne clocked the exits wishing that they’d never come in. Jorah pulled out a seat for her. “My Lady,” he said and she glared at him. “So you know the cook?”

“Somewhat,” Brienne answered through gritted teeth, too anxious to indulge in conversation. “Shame we’ve no time to sample anything.” When Hotpie returned with drinks, Jorah stopped the Dothraki from taking them. Explaining how in Westeros it was custom for a lady to drink and eat first, he passed a full flagon to Brienne as though hopeful it might ease her tension. Desperate to leave, she downed her ale in one as the Dothraki stared on in admiration. Hammering the table when she was done, Brienne wiped her mouth and couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Following her lead, the bloodriders knocked back their drinks as Jorah sipped slowly, watching them and smiling fondly. Over his shoulder, the cook took in his handsome armour with curiosity

“So are you a Knight too like the lady?”

“Oh, not at all on par with the lady,” Jorah sighed and Brienne narrowed her eyes at him and warned the cook:

“Just the bloody drinks if you will, Hotpie-”

“Pie?” At mention of another good made up of ‘golden grass’, the Dragon Queen’s riders broke out in a chant again, this time for the hearty ‘pie’ that Jorah had promised them. Whilst the rest of the inn appeared utterly appalled by their dress and decorum, Hotpie seemed charmed by their enthusiasm. As he made to leave, Brienne grabbed his sleeve and with a serious expression advised him:

“Now don’t go skipping any _ingredients_ . Perfect that _gravy_ and use only the best _kidneys_. These men have never had a pie before and at this rate they won’t live to enjoy another one.”

 

Far from clearing the Inn, the unwelcome appearance of Dothraki screamers had more than tripled expected profits. Nobody saw fit to leave. Drinks were topped up and more food was ordered as customers remained seated to see what the strange men, the dark knight and the tall woman would do. Noisily rambling, the Dothraki drank ale slamming down their flagons, placed their arahks upon the table and pulled serving wenches into their laps. Eyes averted from the disapproving glances of natives, Brienne hissed at Jorah:

“This pie bloody better be worth dying for” and weak tolerance for alcohol on show, he only leaned against her shoulder and smiled.

“Isn’t comfort food and the company of a good woman always worth dying for?” he said and though Brienne should have felt flattered at that moment all she felt for sure was that the King in the North was angry with her. She had neglected Sansa and _this_ was her punishment: supervising foreign warriors who hungered for women, drink and baked things. Though sent by his Queen on account of his language skills, in the beginning Mormont had been so brief about Daenerys that Brienne had surmised he too was somehow being disciplined. Yet back in a Westerosi inn after decades away, he seemed to be enjoying himself and spoke in Dothraki, acting as translator for the benefit of wenches, riders and Brienne. When the pies finally arrived, Jorah reached again for the first one and placed it before her. Appetite gone, Brienne held her knife like a dagger, but there was no time to share the country’s table manners. Left holding a bucket of cutlery, Hotpie stared in awestruck silence as the bloodriders dived in with dirty hands.

 

Gravy oozed down brown chins and fingers as they chewed and nobody at the inn said anything. The rider who had thrown Hotpie over his shoulder was first to swallow his last bite and he shot up to grab the cook by the front of his tunic. Men at surrounding tables rose with swords drawn again and though touched by their concern for one of their own, Brienne really didn’t like fighting on an empty stomach. Shovelling in a single piece of pie, she laid her knife down and Jorah gripped her hand. Reminded of Jaime Lannister stopping her from attacking the Boltons who had kidnapped them, Brienne flushed and withdrew, rising to join the others. Hotpie’s eyes were closed and he was trembling, muttering quietly about the bloody Brotherhood and this being all his fault because he was ‘a fat fuck’. Face an inch from his, the Dothraki who held him smelled of kidney and onions and something dangerous glittered in his dark eyes. Voice slow and precise in his pronunciation, in the threatening tone their language had no matter what was uttered, the bloodrider spoke over Hotpie’s desperate begging:

“Hazi...devrae! Anha vazhak yeraan thirat!”

 

Hanging on the punchy staccato of his every word, the only ones who understood were the Dothraki’s blood. Bursting into laughter, they hammered their flagons upon the table again and Brienne let out a sigh of relief. Mormont clapped merrily, blue eyes twinkling as he leaned close to whisper how ‘hazi devrae’ meant ‘that’s good’ and the rest was ‘I will let you live’. The pie had been a hit and Brienne was finally free to enjoy hers. Stabbing into the crust with her knife she glanced nervously at the gossiping natives, thinking about how happy she’d be never to see another pie again, how she’d rather see the man she had once travelled with before, the one who had stopped her from killing a Bolton and saved her from a bear: Jaime Lannister. Every time she had seen him since, Brienne had glimpsed only slivers of the honour and courage it must have taken him to go diving into that den and yet in the dragon pit of KIng’s Landing, he had turned his back upon her again. Unlike Mormont, he continued to back the wrong Queen and Brienne dreaded the day that she would have to fight him. Like Mormont, she had once believed the rumours about him. Then she’d seen him lose a limb, heard his truth firsthand and been gifted a sword, armour, a steed and a squire to keep an oath for the both of them. Tasked with returning the Stark girls to their mother, though Brienne had done it, what she longed for was the return of Jaime Lannister to a man of honour.

 

When time came to leave though Brienne apologised for the mess, the owners saw them as such good business that they wouldn’t hear of it. Out front, a merry Mormont stood instructing Hotpie and the serving women how to say their goodbye in Dothraki. Pulling Brienne aside just as he had the last time, Hotpie gifted her yet another wrapped wolfbread. The first he’d given had been stale by the time Brienne had caught up with Arya. This one would probably be fought over by Dothraki warriors and end in bloodshed. As predicted it had been devoured midway up the Green Fork and though the Dothraki talked for the next hundred miles about crumbling pie crusts, the bodies of Westerosi women and the growling of the green river beside them, Brienne could not indulge Mormont with conversation. Thinking only of her oath and the women she had sworn it to, Catelyn, mother to Sansa and Arya Stark had once set Brienne the task of escorting Jaime Lannister back to King’s Landing. In exchange her daughters were to be returned to the North. Though Jaime had made it home and Arya and Sansa were now back in Winterfell, Catelyn hadn’t lived to see it. Murdered at her son’s wedding, Brienne and her company passed in the shadow of the setting. The Dothraki marvelled at the two tall castles and the vast crossing at the Twins. Mormont translated some abridged version of the Knight of the Laughing Tree; an old story, it featured a crannogman who had paddled a skin boat down the Fork to attend a tourney only to be bullied by dishonourable knights and defended by a man of mystery. Brienne knew it well, but couldn’t comment for when she looked upon the mossy waters, all she could see was the floating body of Catelyn Stark, blue eyes like sapphires, face scratched as though she’d tried to tear them out. Red hair tangled with weeds and winter roses, in Brienne’s dreams it was Sansa who’d been murdered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I actually ship Jorah x Brienne? 
> 
> It's all so new and confusing. He likes strong blonde women and she's into honourable handsome knights. I mean I was so Jaime and Brienne til death do them part, but now my heart may have stumbled upon a more fitting end for these two unrequited lovers... 
> 
> What do you guys think?
> 
> Bonus: Hotpie being cute as hell. "Try not to get killed" Arya told him...Those showrunners don't wanna try anything!


	8. On The Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany morning theatre. Missandei being her adorable self and Tyrion's drunken sass.

**JON**

 

In black waves, polar and crushing, water would flood his ears and eyes, nose and throat.  Skeletal arms would encircle his midriff, claw at his face and pierce his skin. Soundlessly Jon would cry out as his chest constricted and his limbs, numb and inert, failed him. Drowning in the darkness beneath thick ice, his body would drop like an anchor into the nether. Pupils dilating as light overhead disappeared, Jon would remember: there was nothing to fear. He’d been at one with the darkness once before, only to be plucked from it to suffer ever more. Spared death by mutiny, he had hung boys and men and fought those who flayed them. Unwillingly crowned King, he had sought out the undead and begged the help of Queens. Yet it seemed that what The Red God had truly meant for him was relegation to footman. Every evening from behind closed lids, the living’s defeat impending, Jon always found himself drowning. Closing his eyes, he would cease his struggling and lean into the arms holding him down. Then without pain or sound, Jon would rise, up and up from his watery grave beyond the Wall. Just another face in the Night King’s horde, he’d march toward Winterfell comforted by the knowledge that he would be with his family again,but only when he killed them....

 

Jon awoke and he was still sinking, but never to the bed of a lake. Having twice escaped the dead, he found his head now upon the scented sheets and feather pillows of a queen. If his body was numb or encircled by slim arms, he was lying only beneath the blazing body of Daenerys Targaryen. Her perpetually warm blooded skin pressed against him, their ship rolled its way ever closer to home and to war with the Night King. Jon knew he wasn’t dreaming because the sea still made him green and though his head rang with the shrieks of the dead, his body clung to the sweet relief of the last love he would ever know. Jon spoke her name and though Daenerys stirred, she didn’t wake. Knowledge of her existence had changed everything and nothing would be the same. Like White Walkers, giants and dragons, Jon had heard the stories, but he would never have believed that Daenerys was real without having seen her. Now that he had, and all of her, there was no going back to how pitiless his life had been. Still try as he might, Jon failed to unsee what he knew was coming for all of them...

 

“Your grace?” Daenerys’s aide, Missandei stepped into her Queen’s cabin, retreated at the sight of Jon and spoke again from behind the door: “Your _graces_. Excuse my intrusion. White Harbour is on the horizon.”

“Many thanks.” Jon hid a smile. “Expect us forthwith.” The door was drawn to a close without another word and Daenerys’s voice rose, soft and heavy with sleep.

"To know so many languages and yet Missandei’s eyes offer the truest translation to words she dare not air." Jon raked his rough hands through the loose tendrils of Daenerys hair.  
"You seek her approval?" Jon sat up and Daenerys pulled him back into the cradle of cushions. Blonde hair tickling his skin, her eyes were rings of bright violet, like the bluebells which carpeted the Wolfswood floor come Spring. Covering him just as completely with her body, fingers traced the shadows of fatal wounds left upon his chest.   
"I long only to give Missandei peace. Once a slave, she walks amongst us free. Only now her heart is bound. She has fallen in love with a soldier and knows the ache of having pinned your heart to the mortal body of a beloved soul." Jon covered his lover's eyes with his hands.   
"Then if only for her sake, we could have been more discreet." Daenerys smiled and shook her head.   
"On a vessel of this size, there's no hiding anything.” She reached for his chin. “Nor on a face like this one. Every word out of your mouth means just what you want it to...for better or worse."

 

Jon’s brows pinched and he sat up again. Guilty to have reminded him of what he had risked in the Dragonpit, Daenerys kissed his turned back and pulled him back into the bed linens.  
"Once... I lied,” Jon sighed, “And it _was_ for the _worst_."  
" _What_ _happened_?" Daenerys sat up beside him and Jon turned to her, grey eyes dimming.  
"I fell in love,” he said so softly that it didn’t even sound like him, the truth of it playing on his pained expression. “Then I broke her heart and she died in my arms." Jon stood before Daenerys could stop him and began pulling on his discarded clothing. Following she took his hand and pressed her body against his.   
"Best you never lie again, Jon Snow." Kissing him, unlacing his breeches, he moaned her name.

“Dany…” Daenerys repeated the same warning she had the first time Jon had used that long dead nickname.

“ _Not_ good company-”

“Your brother and I have _nothing_ in common. He actually _wanted_ to be King…” Jon joked, but his true feelings were clear to see: in the sadness of his smile and his lack of urgency. “On dry land you'll be...just _my Queen_ , _Daenerys Targaryen_ of half dozen names and no touching, never even looking at you too long. What I want-” Jon dropped his tunic and drew her into his arms again “-will take a back seat to business ‘cos northmen won't respect us if they think of you as some seductress.”

“Would anybody believe that _you_ enticed _me?_ ” Daenerys kissed his cheek and her hand wandered. “With your _bravery_ and your _honesty_ , your _altruism_ and _brooding_ good looks.”

 

Jon twisted out of her reach and continued dressing. Daenerys waited until he was done and then sat Jon down in the same chair where he had first kissed her and ran a comb through his hair. Securing it in his usual style, she buckled up the straps of his jerkin and Jon kissed her hands again.

“Honestly,” Jon said softly, “All that you mentioned about me is what maddens others most often." Turning to face her, he pressed his cheek to her abdomen. Her porcelain skin unmarred by blemish, birthmark or cicatrix, he kissed her and she sat down in his lap. Burying her face in his neck and kissing him, he moaned: “Gods, Dany...you must be immune.”

“To burning flame, the charms of Jon Snow and the way he _refuses_ to use my full name?”

“Useful...resistances where we’re going.” Jon kissed her breathless as he had been the first time and then tore himself away to ready himself for duty. Cloak on finally, Daenerys nodded in appreciation. She was sitting legs crossed and naked in the chair he’d vacated and in her hands was his sword.

“Forgetting anything?” Smiling Jon approached and stood with hands on hips as she strapped the blade to him. Lowering her lips to the wolf’s head of his pommel, Daenerys kissed it and Jon’s hand instinctively reached for her head. Inhaling he thought better of it and turned to go before their separation could become any more painful. Stopping in the doorway he whispered an almost formal farewell.

“See you on deck. Good day, my... _Dany_.” As Jon pulled the door to a close, a heavy boot hit the other side with a thump. Smiling to himself, he willed his hand to leave the knob and forced his joy to drain from him. Adopting the brooding countenance he was known for, Jon climbed the stairs to a full top deck and nodded at everyone. Davos only shook his head at his pretence whilst  after what she’d seen just that morning Missandei now couldn’t look at him. Lord Tyrion’s face grew dark whenever he caught Jon and Daenerys in a knowing, but furtive glance and he seemed to have started drinking the night Jon had knocked on her door. Clegane of course couldn’t have given less of a shit whilst Varys seemed somehow pleased by his match making. Jon liked to think Theon might have reverted to the bravado of their youth to congratulate him.

Yet he knew from the way they all acted that his love for Daenerys was treacherous. Chasing Rickon across the battlefield had taught him well that it was weakness in war to place your heart in the hands of a mortal and yet he felt the pull of Daenerys Targaryen was something unexplainable, like the moon and the ocean, like her two dragons, like one wolf howling to call the whole pack home. As her Dothraki said: it was known.

 

**DAENERYS**

 

Dressed and scrubbed clean of evidence of nights spent tangled up with the King in the North, Daenerys hoped that Jon could still smell her. Walking out onto the packed deck, her council turned as one and in each burnt something separate; an unsaid caution, some jealousy or weak disdain. Tyrion’s smile was strained and Podrick’s now just a nod. Varys instead seemed smug and Davos bemused. All whilst Jon’s towering friend from beyond the wall, the Hound was too green to think anything and more often than not hid below deck, head glued to a bucket. Daenerys’s handmaiden, Missandei ventured every night down below to lie beside her own love and had remained mum on the topic of Jon Snow. When he dared look toward them, she averted her gaze and came to stand beside her Queen with the air of somebody with much to divulge.

“You _disapprove_?” Daenerys was uncertain of what she longed to hear. Missandei was the only person she could trust not to fall prey to the often unfortunate bias of being in love with her.

“It seems foolish…” she said, stern and cautious and then more softly: “But for the sight of you sleeping so soundly, your grace, I admit that there is little space for reproach in my heart.”

“And in your _mind_?” Daenerys warmed, but knew her ship harboured no romantics.

“My mind remains fixed upon the dead, your grace.” For all of Missandei’s benefit, she was unaccustomed to sharing her thoughts and often did so with a blunt force. “It seems imperative only that we do as they cannot: that we _live_ and we _love_ and if in the end we must join them that we do it _together_.” She did not however lack heart and the careful consideration and wisdom which Daenerys had encountered their first day would no doubt follow Missandei until the last. Daenerys slipped her gloved hand over her friend’s.

“ _Together_ ,” she agreed and Missandei smiled.

 

“ _Together_ ;” Tyrion Lannister chimed in with the drunken slurring of a man ready to tear apart their optimism, “A word which brings no comfort in death. For the best of us want no more than to spare our lover it’s kiss, even if we must offer ourselves up to satisfy it.” Missandei slipped out from under Daenerys’s hand and stepped away and down the ship with a polite nod. Tyrion took up her place beside the Queen. Looking out at the new found port in the distance, he drained a large goblet of wine. Daenerys followed his gaze, but was not thinking of that place, nor of the people in it, or even of those upon her ship. She was thinking of who she had lost.

“I _begged_ a witch for Drogo’s life,” she said and Tyrion lowered his wine, “She took that of our only son in _payment_.” Eyes burning, Daenerys turned her back to the water and Tyrion followed suit. Glaring across the deck, his eyes bore into the back of Jon Snow where he stood, his lone black figure silhouetted on the pale horizon.

“And what would you pay for _his_ life?” Daenerys had known it was coming, but still it stung. “How many more of your _children_?” Tyrion had made it clear that he feared a time in which his Queen would take Jon’s counsel over his, a time when Daenerys would no longer rule, but there was no choosing love over duty. She was not a fool. Wars were won with sacrifice and she was willing to give everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first chapter I ever wrote...Hopefully it doesn't show.
> 
> I liked the idea of everybody's separate nightmares and you know...Jon and Dany being tiny, dressed down royalty with bedhead.


	9. Suffer A Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yara travels with her uncle Euron to meet with the Golden Company. Has such a great time she wishes Ramsay Bolton was still alive...
> 
> (Remember Euron IS a trigger warning. Read with caution. Nothing graphic.)

**YARA**

 

The gentle rocking of a ship had often soothed Yara. Akin to some reminder of the shelter of her mother’s womb, or the warm cradle of her father’s arms, on a ship she had always been either setting forth on a mission or finally coming home. For weeks she had been at sea and though she had often woken in another’s arms, they meant only to cause her harm. Her uncle Euron had kidnapped her and she was grateful only that he hated sharing. Once exiled by her father Balon as punishment for raping their brother’s wife, all Yara’s life Euron had belonged to a category of thieving good for nothings shared by the likes of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. Noblemen from the mainland, they had stolen her father’s youngest son, Theon as punishment for a failed Greyjoy rebellion. Her elder brothers Rodrik and Maron had perished in the fighting leaving Yara as sole heir to the Iron Islands. Her widowed father, Balon, had raised her as surrogate to his lost sons. Encouraged to sail and reav in spite of the disapproval of men who believed women ought not to fight and were unfit to command them, Yara had earned her own longship, Black Wind. It’s painted sails had born her to foreign lands where she had fought and killed and reaved as well as any man. 

 

When Theon had returned to the Iron Islands to ask their father’s help in fighting the crown alongside Robb Stark, they had mocked him into turning against the family who had stolen him. Balon had sent Yara to claim the North Western port of Deepwood Motte whilst Theon had been ordered to raid fishing villages along the Stony Shore. Instead he’d been talked into stealing Winterfell as it’s owners had stolen him and for a time Ironborn had ruled over the North. Then Robb Stark had been murdered at his own wedding and Winterfell had fallen to his killers, the Boltons. When Yara had heard that Theon had been taken and tortured, she had boarded their fastest ship, despite their father’s opposition, and sailed to save her brother. Kept in a kennel, member severed and missing toes and fingers, Theon had been too far gone to recognise himself, let alone to brave going with her. Yara had lost good men and her father’s respect in his rescue attempt. Having never been witness to such weakness, Theon’s manner had so shocked her that Yara had written him off as dead and buried like her other brothers. Left to suffer, he’d escaped and returned to Pyke shortly after their father’s untimely death. Far from pleased to see him, Yara had accused Theon of coming to claim the salt throne, but he'd mumbled denials, unable even to look her in the eyes. All apologies, sobbing and mournful sighs, he’d assured her that his only desire was to help her rule in their father’s stead. Stepping up to claim her place as the first queen of the Iron Islands, she’d vowed to build a fleet no mainland army could hope to defeat. Theon had roused the men in support of her as Lady Reaper of Pyke. They’d chanted her name and then another claimant had spoken. Their estranged uncle Euron had mocked Theon’s failings until Yara had cut across him, swearing to execute whoever had murdered their father. 

 

Shamelessly taking responsibility for the crime, Euron was sorry only that he hadn’t killed Balon sooner and longed to guide the Ironborn out of the corners into which Balon had led them. With plans to sail the largest fleet the world had ever seen across the narrow sea, he meant to gift it under offer of marriage to a Dragon Queen. The same men who had cheered Yara had applauded Euron and as Theon and Yara had run, taking with them the island’s best ships, Euron had been crowned King. Though his niece and nephew had allied with Daenerys Targaryen before he could, Euron had taken his offer to her enemy in King’s Landing and he and Cersei Lannister had plotted together to spill their family’s own blood. Upon the suggestion of Hand to the Dragon Queen, Tyrion Lannister, Yara and Theon had joined another of her Queen’s allies, Ellaria. A sand snake of Dorne, there they were to prepare for a siege on King’s Landing. 

Black Wind attacked in the dark of night by Euron and his men, Ellaria had lost two of her three daughters whilst she and the other were taken for ransom. Fighting valiantly, sword clashing against his battle axe, Yara too had been captured by her uncle, Euron. When he had called out for ‘little Theon’, her brother had stood on deck frozen stiff, embers floating in the air as Euron had challenged him to come and claim Yara. Men dying all around him, screaming as their tongues were cut out, teeth pulled, ears severed and throats slit, Yara had seen the ghost of Ramsay Bolton flit before Theon’s eyes and known that he couldn’t do it. 

 

Sword slipping from his loose grip and clattering to the deck, he’d thrown himself overboard as Euron had howled hysterically in her ear. The same hands which had just been punching her had fondled at her torn vest. Forced to watch as the body of one of Ellaria’s young daughters was hung naked from the bowsprit with her own whip, as the other was pinned to the deck a spear plunged through a bare breast, Yaras fate had been suspended. Beloved Black Wind left to burn, Euron had taken her, Ellaria and her youngest daughter Tyene to be paraded through the streets of King’s Landing. The dornish women had been given to Queen Cersei who sought to exact vengeance for her own murdered daughter Myrcella. When Yara had asked Euron just what he meant to do with her, he’d pulled hard on her restraints and whispered: “you’ve reaved darling, you know just what happens”, but Yara could never have imagined... When Euron had stripped her and had her washed on deck by the same men who had once sailed under her command, she had felt demeaned, but not broken. When he had forced himself upon her, she had imagined one of Daenerys’s dragons burning him alive. When he had tried to sodomize her and she had fought against him, he had tried starving and drowning to change her mind. When neither had worked he’d tied her to the bowsprit to suffer a storm. After that her body ached so completely, she’d have done anything for sleep and nothing he did could hope to penetrate her deeply. 

 

Fed stale bread and Shade of the Evening, Yara was glad to be alone in his cabin. Sensations were dull far off things and her thoughts burned long and hard like the Black Wind. Reminiscing about the feeling of the ocean’s soft lapping, she worried neither her body or mind could withstand what would happen once the ship reached shore. Home was not a place she could go anymore and where they were headed she couldn’t be sure. Hands and feet bound, eyes covered and neck chained, she listened to the crew coming and going. Born into the dock by a flood tide, the ship bumped the quayside. Deckhands threw mooring lines to the dockers who wrapped them about bollards in figure of eight knots and secured everything with another two turns. Flying a yellow flag to signal a vessel free of disease and open to trading, it flapped in a gentle sea breeze. With a wooden thunk, the gangway was lowered and men stamped up and down unloading crates and barrels, but not a word was spoken. Euron’s ship was aptly named the Silence for he had once torn out the tongues of every member of his crew to prevent them from spilling secrets or spreading tall tales about him. Though Yara had travelled far and wide, and it had often seemed as though everywhere she went people feared the name of Greyjoy, she had never met a man who had lived to tell of sailing with her infamous uncle Euron. A single child raised by strong men, hardened sailors and fierce warriors, Yara had never indulged in conversation. Most of her interactions with others had involved killing, sailing or fucking. 

 

Now long at sea, the only ropes she had touched bound her to a bed frame and killing was something she could only imagine. Whenever her body gave in to exhaustion Theon would come to mumble softly in her dreams: about being broken into a thousand pieces, but keeping it together, like a mosaic floor or a dragon’s scales, about better times playing at sailing with Rickon and Maron, about their mother singing ‘It’s Always Summer Under The Sea’. She remembered drinking with Theon in Volantis, talking justice and vengeance. Yara had told him that if he was so broken there was no coming back that he ought to just take a knife, slit his wrists and end it. Despite everything Theon had suffered he’d agreed to fight Euron and she’d kissed his head and sworn never to hurt him. Now she longed to feel his lips at her temple, longed for a knife to end things…Often her eyes closed and she was in one place and when she opened them again it would be to Euron’s face, his lips blue with Shade and eyes dark with a violent rage. 

 

Wrists bound, today she found herself hanging in the middle of the deck. Blinking back a blinding burnt umber, the sun was setting slowly on the horizon and grubby hands were tearing at her stained shift. Body splashed with freezing water, the shock shunted her nerve endings into action. Lungs rapidly bloating and emptying, her skin burned as men scrubbed rough rags over her wasting limbs. Dousing her head with a bucket, she sputtered as her face and hair dripped clean, but for the soap in her eyes she couldn’t see. Still she knew by his manner, that the figure silhouetted by the sun was Euron. Perched upon the ship’s edge, he watched as she was manhandled, casually eating some fruit, sucking noisily at the flesh and stone. Head hanging as not to look at him, Yara could see that her body was marked with yellow and green and brown like the stains upon a wrecked and rotting ship. Euron had told her how much he liked the idea that she couldn’t move without being reminded of him. Yara had begun fabricating stories in her head of battles and accidents which explained away the wounds, refusing to give him the satisfaction of taking up room in her head. Now she could imagine anything. When Euron wiped the dripping juice from his chin and threw the fruit’s pit overboard, Yara went with it, sinking down and down into warm waters teeming with shoals of shimmering fish.  _ Where was this? _ Her mother sang: ‘the birds have scales and the fish take wing’. Theon whispered that Yara was a Queen... 

 

The scent of roses hung about her gown and her feet were an ill fit, contained for what felt like the first time in a long while. Stumbling along beside Euron, despite her new wrappings and his tight grip on her arm, he kept her chained, dragging her along a dimly lit street. Crowded with people talking in foreign tongues, at first Yara assumed she was too full of the Evening to discern anything. Then she began to recognise words, the overpowering scents of citrus and the very best lemons, bread stuffed with olives and sundried tomatoes, fresh clams and rich vintage wines. Faces of all shades swam before Yara’s eyes, their own pupils glinting in blue, brown, green and violet. Men in dark waistcoats and billowing blouses gripped the pommels of thin blades. Leaning over beautiful women, naked but for embroidered waistcoats and tassel skirts, Yara had been to this street before. One of many in the labyrinthine free city of Braavos, Yara tried to keep track of the twists and turns, the canals and bridges, narrow passageways and back alleys. Were she to make an escape, Euron would have trouble finding her again.  _ All I have to do, _ she thought,   _ is find the weak link in this chain...Cut off his hand and feed it to him. A hook would only add to his villainry _ .  _ A stump too? An eye patch? No tongue? Flaying? Where was Ramsay Bolton when you needed him? _

 

“Lord Greyjoy.” A thin older woman, more skin showing than was hidden, greeted the pair of them at the green door of a shadowy establishment. “Lady Greyjoy.” Yara opened her mouth to reply, but Euron cut across her.

“This is no lady,” he said, rattling her chain and causing all eyes to turn upon them. The madam bowed her head, smiling. Euron pulled Yara into his arms and gripped her chin. “This is a  _ beast _ . Look at these jaws. It spits and hisses, bites and claws. Expect you’ve got plenty more wild ones need breaking in.”

“Should you please, ser. Come along. Your hosts await you.” Leading them out of the candlelit parlour into a darkened hall lined with fine wrought iron lattices, at the very end behind a velvet curtain was an opulent room heavy with the battling scents of incense and world worn men. The first to stand was clean shaven, face lined and leathery with long grey hair and a flaming beard.

“Jon fucking Connington,” Euron said as he shook his hand, “I heard you drank yourself to death in Lys. You were Hand to that dead fat fuck Baratheon so no surprise to learn both were felled by wine and blonde women.” The crow’s feet at the corners of Connington’s blue eyes tightened. 

“Had Robert lived, you’d never have dared make a play for his Queen,” said the gaunt man standing tall behind Connington. Skin stretched thin over high cheekbones and deep eye sockets, hair fell to his shoulders in blood red ringlets. Draped in a leopard skin, arms wrapped with golden bands, his pointed black beard moved when he spoke. “Robert would have cut you down-”

“Like he did Connington?” Euron quipped and the handsome man sat down, reaching for his flagon. “I killed my own brothers for the salt throne. You can’t imagine what I’d do to flood the lands of Westeros with Ironborn.”

“Who have you brought along?” A portly man with kind grey eyes smiled around Euron at Yara.

“My niece,” he told him pulling hard upon the chain and jolting her forwards, “Bitch tried to unseat me. Now she serves at my mercy.”

“Incest  _ and _ kinslaying?” drawled a beautiful blonde man, full lips smiling and lilac eyes narrowing, “If you and Cersei aren’t a match made by the Gods of the Seven. The Mother and the Stranger-”

“And you are to be our warriors.”

 

Kneeling on the floor where Euron had pushed her, Yara meditated on the other faces of the Seven’s one God. Cersei had born children, but she was no mother. Mercy was a stranger to her and as far as divine justice went, Jon Snow would have made a better father than Euron. No doubt he had bastards littered about the seven kingdoms, but they would have been lucky never to have known him. Of warriors there were many and Yara considered herself one: Ironborn, northmen, Unsullied, Dothraki, Wildlings, the army of the dead. In time all of them would pass into legend. The Crone was said to be an old woman harbouring ancient wisdom. The last old woman Yara had come into contact with had been Olenna Tyrell. Her quest for vengeance had seen her poisoned. The Stranger, representing death and the unknown, could have been no one other than the Night King whilst the Builder, a man known for fixing broken things was just who they would need when the White Walkers were done with them. Yara knew only the Drowned God with his halls beneath the sea. He had gone under and risen again for them, harder and stronger and compelled his people to pillage the lands of their enemies. To die at sea was considered a blessing, a call to becoming an oarsman to their Gods. Those who had wronged them were tied to stakes on the beach and left to watch, helpless as the tide brought in their slow execution. Yara had no doubt that should Cersei be fool enough to marry Euron, she wouldn’t live long and her death would be instant. Yara however could feel the tide coming in, inching its way up the sand to cover and fill her the way Euron-

 

“Some women-” Euron said, pulling Yara by the shoulders to sit between his legs “-devour weak men like praying mantis, but the pleasure of having them always outweighs the risk.” The statuesque blonde glanced at her from behind his drink. Gemstones in his ears twinkling in the darkness, the nails of his long, thin fingers were painted scarlet. In stark contrast to the masculinity of Connington, the world weariness of the rotund warrior and the intensity of the gaunt lover of big cat’s skins, the last of them was so feminine that Yara suspected it was a protective veil like chain mail. Designed to lure enemies into believing he was harmless, no doubt the beauty was lethal and never missed a target. Lilac eyes piercing, his gaze lingered over Yara whenever he cared to glance at Euron. Something about that look stirred desire within her. Reminiscent of another light eyed blonde, not long ago Yara had taken the pale arm of the Dragon Queen and pledged her life and ships to her cause to conquer Westeros. The fleet had burned whilst Yara had lived and yet nobody had come for her. 

Southern voice ringing with dissatisfaction, the robust Connington spoke plainly of Daenerys’s sibling.

“Viserys was a spoiled child,” he spat, “No true dragon.” The portly one chimed in with anecdotal evidence. Speaking of a meeting with the false Targaryen, he said:

“We once dined with him. The sister, Daenerys was also in attendance. The boy hadn’t a coin. A _beggar_ _king_ , he offered the girl up in payment, but no virgin could be worth the loyalty of 10, 000 men. Beautiful, she was for certain, but meek, placid.” 

“No bargain,” the gaunt one quipped, “Better fit for a khal. The boy got his armies and his end.”

“Deservedly,” the blonde said and the others agreed, “As for the girl, being sold into slavery is sure to change a person.” Euron ran a rough hand over Yara’s hair, nodding smugly. 

“But not often for the better,” the fat warrior looking one shifted uncomfortably unable to look at Yara. “The Targaryen girl is now a conqueror.” Lapsing into a contemplative silence, flagons drained as though in admiration for a former slave rising up against her master. Eventually leopard skin broke the silence, asking what it seemed his company were all thinking.

“And Cersei Lannister needs  _ us _ to fight for  _ her _ against a Queen with an army of Dothraki screamers, freedmen assassins, three dragons and the backing of a North united under a Stark King? That doesn’t sound like a battle we would win.”

“The Targaryen bitch has  _ two _ dragons,” Euron stated bluntly and Connington glared at him over his drink, “And as for her men, they’re a motley crew of foreign scum, cockless freaks, exiled knights, lazy whores, stolen slaves, a jumped up bastard and his feckless men.” 

 

Yara wondered what Euron knew of the Golden Company of Braavos. The former had been formed by exiled Westerosi knights looking to make coin as sellswords. Whilst the city they called home was famed for being founded by runaway slaves and had outlawed the practice upon its emergence. No doubt Euron goaded them on the condition that having accepted Cersei’s money they were now under his employment. Still Yara hoped that for the way Connington glared at him, that the Golden Company would for the first time break contract in the name of killing a kinslaying, buccaneer. 

“Half her circus will succumb to the elements and the rest to your swords and elephants. Queen Cersei demands the pleasure of ending the dragon queen and her pet northmen, finally ridding Westeros of the bastard and his wolfpack -”

“As her father did to the Targaryens?” Connington spoke up again, hand upon his sword.

“Exactly,” Euron confirmed, sitting forward and smiling smugly as though inviting Connington to try him. Chest pressed against Yara, his heart beat against the crown of her head and she wanted him dead. When Connington didn’t smile, but sat back, Euron nodded at his beautiful blonde friend, “This one has a look of them. Perhaps more than two Targaryens made it out of King’s Landing.”

“Unfortunately not. I am from Lys where the blood of old Valyria flows strongest-”

“All designer bed slaves, child prostitutes and slimy alchemists, isn’t it?” The blonde didn’t so much as move an inch, smile twitching at his full mouth, “Lips like that I’m guessing you’ve handled more  _ dick _ than poisons.” Though the one with red ringlets smiled, nobody laughed.

“There’s a first time for everything,” the blonde said, leaning forwards to fill Euron’s flagon, “Drink.” Smirking Euron raised the cup as though to down it before grabbing Yara by the throat and forcing it down her neck. Spluttering and coughing, wine dripping down her chest, staining the front of her gown, half a minute passed in which the others watched as though waiting for her to drop dead. 

 

On Yara’s tongue a taste lingered that was not wine, something akin to fennel and star anise, like licorice or the green drink absinthe.  _ Which poison? _ she wondered,  _ The Strangler or Tears of Lys? _ The latter she’d heard was tasteless. A favourite of impatient heirs, it was said to disintegrate a man’s guts, ensuring a slow and agonising death. The Strangler however was swift like an assassin armed with rope. The recipients throat would tighten like a fist, throat turning purple as bile foamed from between blue lips. Whilst Yara knew that her lips were already stained by Shade, what she felt was not clenching, but lifting, as though a mist was clearing. The brothel no longer sounded as though it were underwater and the aching within clawed at her abdomen, stripped gullet and shrunken stomach. Suddenly aware of the aroma of the fruit bowl on the table, Yara stared at the fuzzy peaches, gleaming grapes and dark figs as her innards contracted and groaned. Content in the knowledge that nobody would dare try to kill him, Euron drew a flask from within his vest and uncorked it.

“I brought my own,” he said and the blonde stumbled.

“Smart!” he said louder than was necessary, knocking a tray of dried dates into Yara’s lap. Devouring as many as she could, should Euron notice, the sweetness of the thick fructose half glued her mouth shut. Chewing with head bowed, the last thing she remembered tasting so good was Ellaria’s mouth. They'd been kissing when Euron had attacked them.  _ What had Cersei Lannister done to her? _ The woman had blown up a hundred citizens simply for judging her. Ellaria had murdered her daughter Myrcella. There would be nothing left to mourn.

 

“You should know,” the portly one informed Euron, “Lysono was a sailor.” Brows raised, interest peaked, Euron tightened his grip upon Yara’s chain and she chewed furiously again.

“Then he knows what it is to thirst for a woman.” Dragging Yara back towards him, she swallowed just as he pulled her up into his arms and onto his lap. “This one...tastes  _ bland _ like the bottom of a barrell. She’s drained.” Yara no longer felt empty. With every passing moment she was filling with a new strength and old, well matured contempt. “I deserve something that makes my tongue dance.” Lysono stood to offer Yara his hand.

“As luck should have it,” he said, “I like them broken in.” Euron stood pulling Yara up with him and tightened his grip upon her waist. Hand twisting her lips, he licked a trail up her face all whilst his eyes were locked upon the blonde one.

“Nasty,” he said as though impressed, “Though you are attractive enough for two. Bring me a girl better looking than you and the deal is done.” Handing over Yara’s chains, the blonde held them as though they burned his hands. The fat one tapped his arm.            

“Grab Veness.” Connington stood to square up to Euron. 

“Escort Greyjoy back to his ship.” The leopard wearer finished with:

“And soon we’ll set sail for Westeros.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long because I'm visiting my sister and acting as homehelp and getting 3 hrs sleep by the time I get around to writing. Also villains come through me like an exorcism. I think it's my inner Slytherin. 
> 
> Anyway screw Euron.
> 
> Isn't he on everybody's kill list? Who else is on yours?


	10. Broken Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon arrives in Braavos having chased his uncle to Essos. On a mission to rescue his sister, the labyrinth holds true darkness.

**THEON**

 

Though he’d heard tales of the Free City, Theon never would have expected that he would live to see it. So much of what had happened to him were things he could never have imagined. Now that his sister had been taken by their uncle Euron, he didn’t want to think on what had been done to her. Together they had defied him, escaping with his best ships to give them to Daenerys Targaryen. When she had ordered them to escort Dornish allies back home and their ship had been set upon by their vengeful uncle, together they had fought him. As sails had burned to ash above and proud men had died screaming, eyes and ears and teeth taken as trophies, Euron had seized Yara and screamed at him: 

“Little Theon!” just as his mother had done the day her youngest son had been taken. She had been holding Yara then too and later Yara had told Theon that for years his name was all their mother had uttered. Mind broken by losing three sons in a failed rebellion, Yara had said the mother she’d known had long gone missing with Theon. Standing aboard that burning ship, eyes locked upon Yara’s face, broken and helpless as their mother’s had been, ears ringing with screams, Theon had felt the fight drain from him. Once again he was the boy on the boat, held in place to stop him from jumping, swimming back into the arms of his loving mother, father, sister...Yara was the only one still living and no hands were restraining him. Sword slipping from his grip and clattering to the deck, Theon had torn himself away from Yara’s face, from his mother’s face and leapt overboard thinking only of getting home…

 

Alone amongst the flotsam of burning ships, Theon had stared up at the woman hanging from the bowsprit and been relieved to see that her hair and face were brown. He had wanted to drown until he had thought of their God and what a blessing it was to drown at sea. When Ironborn ships had finally come to hunt for survivors, Theon had been happy only if so he could kill himself on land. The broken silence endured whilst he had waited for them had haunted him ever since: the creaking of rope, the gentle lapping of the ocean, the crackling of wood burning. Returning to Dragonstone to beg help of Daenerys Targaryen in getting Yara back, he’d found her throne vacant and an old friend standing upon the shore. Jon Snow had never warmed to him when they’d been young, jealous perhaps of Theon’s closeness with his half-brother Robb. On the beach he had shown him mercy for all that had transpired after he had taken Winterfell on account of the fact Theon had helped his sister Sansa escape from the Boltons. Eye for an eye, Jon had vowed to help Theon and the Dragon Queen too had admitted to wanting to see Yara on the Salt throne. When the summons from Cersei Lannister had come, the mission to raid beyond the wall, the summit at the Dragonpit in King’s Landing, for a time Yara had gone forgotten. Then Theon had laid eyes upon Euron again. Sitting at the hand of another Queen, he had called Theon to submit to him lest he kill Yara and that was the last mention of her. Leaving shortly after, fleeing at the sight of the wight that Jon had gone to great risk to capture, Euron had advised Daenerys to return to her island and that he would do the same, resurfacing once the dead had laid claim to Westeros and they were the last two people alive. By the end of the meeting all Theon had learned was: that Cersei Lannister was a flighty bitch and not to be trusted, that Jon was as earnest and good hearted as his father had been, that for a half man all of Tyrion was made of steel and that Theon’s sister Yara was still alive. 

 

Back in Dragonstone, Theon had been desperate to earn Jon’s respect as well as permission to pause from their cause to find his sister. Shortly after their arrival, the spider Varys, who seemed to have taken to Theon on account of shared disfigurements, had taken him down the beach to share secret information. His little birds roosting at the cliffs had seen Euron taking a wrong turn at sea. The tide had brought in whisperings of a pirate headed to Essos with a ship full of the kind of gold fit to finance a sellsword company. Varys would see fit to tell the Queen should Theon fail to intercept Euron. Suspicions of double crossing entertained since the pit, Theon knew little of his uncle, but as a coward he knew the man was no craven. Half listening as the Dragon Queen, the King in the north and their council had bickered, arranging their travel to the north, to Winterfell and to Sansa and to a million reminders: of kidnapped children, burning ones, Sansa and the man they had both suffered, Theon had chased after Jon. Speaking highly of him, Theon had earnestly shared his regrets and the King in the North, though unable to forget, had offered forgiveness for any reason he had previously held Theon in contempt. Speaking of his father, Ned as having been Theon’s too, Jon had answered a question that Theon had long wondered. He knew who Theon was: both a Greyjoy and a Stark, that he didn’t have to choose. Thinking upon the qualities of the two, of Jon’s determination and Yara’s loyalty to him, Theon had allowed them to absorb his cowardice and Jon had given his blessing. Approaching the Ironborn set to leave on the shores of Dragonstone, they had mocked him and fought him and though he had fallen again and again, strikes to the face and gut were nothing compared to what Theon had endured at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. Rising to take down his competitor, beating him until his hands were red and he could have been dead, Theon had roared that he’d done it for Yara, that they were going to rescue her and washed his face in the saltwater.

 

Now that he was within reach of her, had seen her with his own eyes, on Euron’s arm and in chains, stumbling up a shadowed lane and into the system of labyrinthine alleyways, Theon was ready to die rather than run again. Aware that after a stretch at sea all any man wanted was pussy, Theon stepped into the first brothel in his path. Assaulted by the thick incense which did little to hide the pungent aroma of bodies writhing together for coin, Theon pushed down what had risen, swallowing the bile at the back of his tongue and pressed on. Sticking to the corners of the room, though he saw many Ironborn, none were the one he wanted. Under glow of candlelight, salt stained men were stripped and washed clean by dutiful women. Slender feminine hands traced their way across scarred skin. Full breast were pressed to bare chests. Hands worked and mouths were filled as Theon stood, stiff with horror, eyes stinging with tears a hand to his own breeches as he remembered. Ramsay had tricked him into thinking women wanted him and they had laughed as he was castrated, root and stem…

 

“Let me help with that.” Though Theon couldn’t feel anything, he could see that a freckled woman was touching him. Hand over his, she pressed her body against his and he could feel her chest compressing under a thin shift, feel it heaving with her breaths as Theon wrenched her hand away from him. Gripping her throat and staring, at the shock in her eyes Theon began to cry. Expression softening, she kissed him, asking: “How long’s it been since you seen a woman?” Shaking his head sorrowfully, Theon let her go only to stop his tears from falling. Free hands reaching for him, she pulled him close again and slipped the left into his breeches, reaching for something that wasn’t there. This time Theon didn’t stop her, eyes shut so he didn’t have to see the look on her face. When she gasped, retracted her hand and reached for his chin, Theon bolted and found himself in the street once again. Lungs filling and expelling salty air free from incense, his hands flat to the warm wall, having vomiting onto the stones, Theon felt the stab of a rapier poking him in the ribs. Turning slowly with hands raised, a young Bravos in skirt and laced sandals asked him a seemingly random question.

“Who is the most beautiful woman in the world?” Mind returning to the ageing prostitute inside the brothel, to Yara, Ellaria and her dead daughters, to the cat like face of Olenna Tyrell, Daenerys Targaryen and her exotic looking aide, the Bolton women who had laughed at him, Sansa Stark all in white on her wedding night, Ros, the scarlet woman of Winterfell who Theon had bedded back when the worst thing to have happened to him was being taken from his mother’s arms, his mother with her harsh face and smiling eyes, singing: ‘the shadows come to dance my love, the shadows come to play, the shadows come to dance my love, the shadows come to stay’...

 

“Leave him be!” The same working woman who had held his nothing in her palm came now to his rescue. “The most beautiful woman in the world is the Nightingale, but this one ain’t got no use for a lady.” Lowering his sword, Theon looked regretfully down at his vomit on the stones. “He’s unarmed... “ the prostitute whispered and the swordsman stalked off to find more worthy competition. Hand pointing at his breeches, she advised: “You best lose that thing or you’ll be easy pickings on these streets, darling.” Looking down to the sword at his hip, Theon nodded his understanding and the woman retreated. Crossing to follow, he whispered his gratitude and she stopped, twisting to stand in his arms again. Her skin was prickled like goose flesh, soft and warm, but her eyes swam with pity for him. Though she tried to embrace him, Theon stepped away. The only woman fit to hold him was Yara. First he had to rescue her. “Dunno what’s left to go looking for, honey,” the prostitute said, crossing her arms, “I’d help yeh if I could, but the city’s swimming with Jons.” Theon smiled because Jon was the last man he could imagine paying a woman to spend the night with him. “Them Ironborn like it rough, but they’re good for the cuffs.”

“I’m looking for one of them,” Theon told her and she narrowed her eyes at him, “Calls himself King, travelling with a woman, the bow of his ship is hugged by a kraken.” 

“Reckon I heard of ‘im. Galleys known from Ibben to Asshai. Girls saw ‘im unloading crates ‘o the iron stuff at the docks and went clamouring after ‘im. Men he’s payin’ don’t drink anywhere, but the Saluki. Take a right in the labyrinth, walk east for ten, north and then west and it’s a green door with no sign at a dead end. Knock one and three and two again.” Theon gripped her hand, lowering his lips to kiss it and she pressed her cold palm to his cheek again. “Watch yourself. Kinda place tha’ caters everything ain’t no friend to anyone without a cock.”

 

Following the woman’s instructions, his hand hovered over the door, but for the sounds of screaming within, Theon couldn’t bring himself to rap upon the wood.  Bolting back down the alley and into the darkness, at the sound of raised voices Theon pressed himself flat to the wall, gripping the pommel of his sword. Light sliced the cobbles in half and into the stark spotlight stepped his uncle Euron. Neck and vest stained with fresh, bright blood, he was laughing and wiping his hands clean on his breeches.

“Fucking women,” he chuckled to whoever was behind him, “They give life and try to take it away all whilst being so...breakable.”

“Well it was you who compared them to praying mantis…” A tall silver haired man with full lips and jeweled studs in his ears left the brothel behind Euron. “The male has escaped his fate to fuck again.” Painted fingers holding a chain, the stranger pulled a woman out of the building and into the street with them. 

“Shame…” Euron sighed, taking the waif by the waist and drawing her into his arms, “I like a fighter. This one had fire in the beginning.” Spitting in his face, the chained captive, though pulled back by the strange man, was beaten to the ground by Euron. Writhing on the cobbles in the strip of light cast by the open door of the brothel was Yara. In a gown and whittled down to flesh and bone, Theon hadn’t recognised her, but when the stranger tried to pull her up and she threw him off, chains rattling and growling, he saw his sister, for all her body had lost, was still inside of there.

 

Walking far behind, Theon tracked their movements back out of the labyrinth. All the way Euron spoke loudly of the ways he’d fuck his Queen once the war was won whilst behind him the blonde man whispered into Yara’s ear and she flinched away from him. Back where he had started, the same challenge presented itself to Euron. A young swordsman, pacing and twirling his sword with Braavosi flourish, asked who the most beautiful woman was and Euron drew his sword smiling. The blonde man drew Yara back by the arms.

“Cersei Lannister,” Euron answered and his contender laughed heartily.

“A brother fucker fails to hold a candle to the Nightingale,” he said, though he had barely finished before Euron had lunged, axe in hand. Parrying the attack with his thin blade, the Braavos vaulted over him, landing with a hand on the cobbles and a smirk up at Yara and the blonde man. Twisting swiftly to stab him in the back, Euron bent low, spinning his axe to take out his Achille’s tendons. Predicting the attack, the Bravos jumped, turning in the air to face Euron. Missing his target, the axe lodged itself in the wall an inch from Yara and the blonde man who had been inching away from the action. Simultaneously pulling free a dagger from his boot, Euron pitched it upward, piercing his competitor in the neck as he made to turn his head. Falling like a ton of bricks, the boy bled out onto the cobbles, choking on his own fluids. Euron bent low over him to watch the bubbles popping at the corner of his mouth. Retrieving his knife, he twisted it, repeating:

“Cersei Lannister is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Keep your songbird. This is how it feels to be fucked by a lion.” Swiftly drawing out the knife, Euron stabbed the boy in the groin and dragged the blade up to his navel, gutting him. Life left him with a whimper that Theon had once wished upon himself. Euron wiped his blade clean on the boy’s shirt and slipped it inside his boot again. Kneeling before Yara, he pulled his axe free from the wall and pressed his tongue to where the blade had sliced her shin. Shuddering she gripped the cloak of the blonde man. Holding her chains white knuckle tight, Theon could see that his other hand was on his sword. At the commotion the same woman who had helped Theon stepped out into the street. Hand on heart at the sight of the fallen, she sighed:

“The God of Death got his wish tonight.” The blonde cleared his throat and said:

“Our victor needs a woman. “ Euron waved his axe at her as she turned shouting:

“A blonde one, fairest thing you’ve got, practically Targaryen!”

 

At port Euron’s ship, the Silence sat half abandoned. Theon’s men had been instructed to wait for his return, but a city of sin had proved too much temptation. Euron was his battle alone. Parting ways, the blonde unwillingly shook Euron’s hand. He whispered in his ear something that repulsed him and the man took his leave pulling hard on Yara’s chain. Watching her approach the labyrinth as Euron pushed his prostitute aboard the Silence, Theon weighed his options. Euron would never give Yara up beyond a business transaction so surely she was on loan;  measure of good faith amongst new partners in crime. The strangely alluring blonde would not break a borrowed possession. Theon had time to kill Euron before Yara could return. Removing his boots and leaving them sitting at the dock, Theon inched his way up the mooring rope. Freezing at the sound of men boarding, two Ironborn deckhands stomped up the gangway, stumbling and sloshing ale all the way. Breathing hard, suspended in midair, Theon’s bare feet missing toes clung desperately to the mooring. Once the sounds of their walking had faded to a stop, he pulled himself up, arm by arm and reached one hand at a time to hang from the bulwhark. Drawing upon every bit of strength in his wasted limbs, Theon scrambled quietly aboard. Standing tall and catching his breath, directly across the deck, the two men who had boarded were staring. Bleary eyed, their reactions slowed by intoxication, Theon threw a dagger as Euron had done and one crumpled to the ground. The other opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Euron had removed the tongues of every one of his men to prevent the spread of lies about him. Clumsy hands fumbling for his sword, Theon pulled his dagger free of the fallen man and pushed it up through the other’s chin. Theon held him close before slitting his throat and laying him down to bleed out quietly beside his friend. Watching him gargle, it struck Theon that though he had seen Yara and she had spat upon Euron, she hadn’t spoken.  _ Does she still have her tongue?  _ Theon wondered,  _ Has he taken anything else? Perhaps Euron gave Yara to the pretty blonde as a joke because he’s sealed up what he wanted…  _

 

A beam of light cut across the promenade, framing his figure. Casting a shadow, bigger and wider than him, Theon turned to Euron standing in the door of the quarterdeck. 

“Little Theon…” he said again, shirtless and tensing, hands balled into fists and cock straining against his breeches. “Always interrupting.” Euron tutted, glancing down at Theon’s misfigured feet. “A barefoot assassin. Come to playfight with uncle? Remember now how momma said never to give what you can’t take.” As Theon hurled his dagger, Euron dived sideways to grab a heavy lanyard. Whipping it around his head, he threw it at Theon catching him hard in the chest with the deadeye block. Air knocked from his lungs, Theon stumbled and fell headfirst into the bulwhark. Standing over his fallen men, Euron drew one of their swords from its scabbard and advanced upon Theon. Chest burning and heart seizing, Theon vaulted again over the edge of the ship, swinging himself in through a low porthole. Landing on top of a sleeping man, he yelled without making a noise. Rolling off of him, Theon reached for the chamberpot at the foot of his bed and bashed his head in. Blood on his hands and face, Theon almost slipped in it as he left the cabin. Taking the pot with him, he found himself in the galley and realised that he had killed the cook. Hunting around for a better weapon, he grabbed a machete and ducked at steps approaching the kitchen. the sounds of glass breaking above, feet swiftly approaching. Hand clasped over his mouth, knife at his chest, Theon could hear Euron breathing. Scraping the tip of his blade about the floor and lifting it to tap counters and cabinets, he attacked lingering flagons and pans hoping to shock Theon into revealing his position. Frozen as the boards creaked under foot too close for comfort, Theon had often lost at hide and  go seek when he had played with his siblings as children. He’d always been too proud of his best hiding places to keep them secret. Sharing with Yara, often she had hidden from her brothers, their mother for so long that everybody forgot that they were playing and she went from winning to missing. Searching for her became a game in itself until everybody was scouring cliff edges and rock pools out of fear that she'd fallen or drowned. Always found, safe and sound, Yare had never shared her hiding places with him and he'd suspected that she liked being alone. Now Theon wasn't going to let her win. 

 

Somewhere deep within the living quarters a door opened and shut and Euron straightened up. Hiss of: “Peek a boo cockless…” fading into the black, Theon rose slowly to his feet. Bruising chest throbbing, machete in hand he tiptoed across the mess and up the hall to the stairs which led to the deck. As he climbed, shards of glass pierced his soles, step by step and he screamed, frozen as blood dripped down into darkness. Howling in the distance, Euron hammered his way toward him, banging on the doors of sleeping men's cabins. Doors swung open and swords were drawn as silent soldiers joined him. Gripping the railing, Theon remembered the dark place to which he had relinquished himself during flaying. Putting the pain to the back of his mind, he imagined his feet were made of mud, that the soil simply moved around the glass leaving him unharmed. Urging himself up onto deck, he overturned a heavy barrel. As Ironborn approached, glass crunching under boots, Theon rolled the barrel down the steps, knocking them off their feet and into a pile at the bottom. Those behind clambered over them and Theon crouched low beside the door, slicing Achille’s tendons as they passed him. Mouths roaring silence and eyes wide and reflecting the moon where it shone in the sky above them, each fell to their knees blocking the opening. Taking up a sword and swinging hard as the last of them rushed the steps, the man was decapitated. Head flying across the deck, body falling forwards, Euron emerged behind him, dipping below the blade embedded in the door frame. Gaze following the bloody foot prints circling the deck, they ended at the bottom of the crow's nest. As Euron looked up, Theon jumped down, machete gleaming. Swinging his sword, Euron missed, was disarmed and caught in the shoulder by the wide kitchen knife. Lying in the light from the doorway, a man Theon had crippled tried to stab him and his hands wrapped about the attacker's throat, strangling him. Throwing his limp body aside and pulling the sword from his hands, when Theon stood he found nothing, but a bloodstain where he had left Euron. 

 

Turning on the spot, Theon kicked off another cripple who tried to grab him. Stamping until his pointing hand fell limp, Theon released his sword as a rope tightened about his throat. Lifted off his bleeding feet, Theon clawed at his restraints and kicked against Euron. Carrying him to the edge of the ship, he turned Theon and headbutted him. Nose streaming, eyes tearing, his throat constricted. Euron pushed him into a sitting position on the bulwhark, dangling him further, glaring as he lost consciousness. As Yara’s voice called his name and their mother sang again: “birds have scales and fish take wing” Theon felt the rush of air against his skin. Falling backward into the water, rather than feeling the surface break sharp against his back, the rope tugged tight again choking him and when he opened his eyes it was to the purple eyes of the dragon queen.

“You're the most beautiful woman in the world,” Theon murmured and the full lips hovering above him stretched into a smile, a laugh.

“Always knew you were a faggot…” The rope unwound as though by magic from around his neck, and Theon fell back on deck beside his uncle Euron. Bound and bleeding, shoulder cleaved open, a dagger Theon didn't recognise had been jammed into his back. The hand which retrieved it was not fine and slender with painted fingers. Sword disappearing the same five digits, grubby and sticky as though with fruit, pulled Theon to his feet.

“Brother…” 

 

Yara was standing before him, a shadow of her former self, blindingly pale in the moonlit darkness. Wrapping her arms around him, she smelled alien: roses and sandalwood rather than salt and seaweed. Her body had shrunken close to nothing and her bones jutted into him. Hands hovering afraid of hurting her, Theon pulled away to kiss her forehead, blustering:

“I came to save you…” At their feet, Euron laughed and spat:

“And you couldn't even do that, you feckless-” The blonde man kicked Euron so hard that teeth sprayed the deck. Leaning to collect them like the sheep bits in a game of knucklebones, he glared long and hard at Euron.

“Now who’s fit to suck a lot of dick?” Yara smiled as the blonde pressed the teeth into her palm. “What worth are pearls? I'll string you a necklace-” Other hand leaving Theon’s arm, Yara rose on tiptoe to kiss the strange man, deep and passionate as though they had known one another longer than a single evening. Looking down at his empty hands, Theon remembered refusing to hug the prostitute because he wanted to hold Yara again. Searing pains cramping his feet, he went to his knees wincing. Releasing her protector, Yara returned to Theon and leaned to inspect his shredded soles. Hissing at their uncle, Theon knew she wasn’t surprised so much as disgusted, that she’d probably been through worse in order to arrive at this point.

“You always were the best at hide and go seek.”

“Not this time,” Yara replied with a smile he hadn’t seen in too long, “This time you've won.”

“How did you escape?” Yara glanced over her shoulder at the tall blonde. Having stuffed his scarf into Euron’s mouth, he was now tying him to the mast.

“Promiscuity pays,” Yara laughed and Theon frowned, “A boy or a girl in every port. Aboard my first ship, I lost my maidenhead to a stunning beauty from Lys. We spoke about our dreams. He wanted to be a spy and I wanted to command a ship.”

“‘Call it Black Wind’ I said after the volcanic beaches of Dragonstone where we first met. Ironic that your ship burned. I am Lysono Maar, spymaster to the Golden Company.”

“And a terrible sailor. His ship wrecked,” Yara teased, a glimmer of her former self. Again Euron laughed and Lysono punched him, once, three times and then two again like the secret knock for the Saluki. Flexing his hand, Yara grabbed the blonde and kissed the blood from his knuckles. “This is my brother, Theon.” As they shook hands, Euron groaned and wheezed behind them. Lysono slid his dagger into Yara’s hands.

“You should cut out his tongue. He's betraying the name of his own ship. What we need is his Silence.” 

 

Yara nodded and Lysono grabbed Euron by the head, pulling him back by the hair. Grinning and licking his split lip, their uncle’s face was a mess of blood and bone, wounds and swellings.

“Bite her and I'll pull your teeth one by one,” Lysono warned, “Any last words, Euron of House Greyjoy, buccaneer, enslaver, predator, kinslayer, courier to Cersei Lannister-”

“Defiler,” Yara added and Theon stiffened. Euron rose his head to look her in the eye, gaze roving as though undressing her before them. Smirking and pursing his lips as though to blow her a kiss, Euron leaned as far forward from the mast as he could to whisper to Yara alone:

“I'd do it all again. Here's hoping my seed took root in you lest the Greyjoy line die out with a queer and a cockless cun-” Theon dived for Euron’s tongue and wrenched it out. Yara sliced through it, trying to be slow and purposeful, but the blade slid through like it was liver or offal. Blood gushing from the stump, Theon was left holding his uncle’s tongue. Unable to look at it, he stuffed it into his pocket. Yara pressed the dagger into Theon’s other hand and stumbled backwards into Lysono. Pale fingers smeared with Euron’s blood, the blonde gripped Yara’s chin and pressed his lips to hers again. 

“Though I long to see dragons,” he said, “the Golden Company will not join your fight with the dead. Too great a risk…” Yara nodded and Theon couldn’t feel disappointed. He had gotten what he came for and he had done it solo. “But you best take a gift for Queen Daenerys.” Nodding down at Euron, Yara smiled and kneeled before him, unlacing his breeches.  Gaze lingering she spat on him again and hissed:

“I won't forget this…” before turning to her brother and pressing the dagger into his hands, “Theon. You remember what he wanted to give our Queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Body count anyone? 
> 
> I love Euron and Yara. Being from a broken family full of half siblings with entire other families, I find them highly relatable.
> 
> Can't tell you where this came from, but the seven kingdoms needed ridding of some filth. Now we need some nice things...
> 
> More Brienne and Jorah on the road to Winterfell? Or Jaime and Bronn?


	11. Written In Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is a free man who doesn't need no woman. Bronn has everything, but wants more of it. 
> 
> Will the Kingslayer ever become a man of honour? Will Cersei allow him to turn his back on her and his baby? 
> 
> Covering his hand is probably going to stop people from recognising Jaime as much as Superman removing his glasses made him into Clark Kent...

**JAIME**

 

The roads leading out of King’s Landing and away from the crownlands had been well tread by him in all directions. In times past Jaime had gone wherever he was bid and for whatever reason. Asking questions why had always fallen short to dutiful obligation. Now that he was going north against his Queen, his sister, his lover’s declination and threats of execution for treason, he finally felt good about leaving. Accompanying Cersei to a summit with enemies and their allies at the Dragonpit, Cersei had not requested Jaime’s presence, but for his need to see what the King in the North had brought back from beyond the wall, to see his brother Tyrion again and stand in the presence of diminutive Daenerys Targaryen and her towering dragons, to be present should Cersei wish to act upon any genocidal impulsion had all been too much for Jaime to deny. At Cersei’s side he had taken in the myriad faces aligned with the Dragon Queen: exiled knights, savages, slave soldiers, exotic translators, spymasters and unwanted sons, northmen, smugglers,  old dogs, Ironborn and women of honour and Jaime had wondered what more than fear of death by fire had united them together.

 

Around Cersei had been a her black clad Queen’s guard, a mad scientist maester, the dead psycho he’d raised and the single allie to the crown, sea rat of House Greyjoy, Euron. Threatening his nephew Theon with murder of the sister he’d kidnapped and insulting Tyrion’s stature, he had only sat back down again at Cersei’s insistence. Their brother had delivered a speech rich with usual eloquence, about ‘people who don’t like one another very much’, suffering and love lost. Cersei had questioned the possibility of ‘harmony’ and asked after the real intent of their gathering. Jon Snow, King in the North and bastard to Ned Stark had earnestly explained that if they ignored the threat descending from Beyond the Wall the million living in King’s Landing wouldn’t be anymore. Cersei had scoffed at his dramatics and mocking and accusing, thrown all offer of a truce into the face of Daenerys Targaryen. Then the Hound had come. Unloading an armed crate, he’d gone to great pains to unleash it’s cargo and kicked it open to reveal something of the likes Jaime had never seen: a dead man rotting. He’d born witness to hundreds, on battlefields, in encampment tents, woodlands and burning by riverbeds, but this one had still been moving. Fuelled by a frenetic rage, rabid like a sick dog, the thing had flung itself from within that box. Stopping barely an inch from Cersei’s face, her hands had gripped the arms of her seat white knuckle tight. Jaime had not seen his sister show fear many times, but more often than not they had been separated whenever the very worst was happening. When Stannis Baratheon had sacked King’s Landing and Cersei had almost been driven to suicide, Jaime had been ambushed and taken for ransom by Robb Stark. When Jaime had lost his hand as a captive to Boltons , Cersei had been safe from harm and assisting their son, King Joffrey in the running of the Seven Kingdoms. When Cersei had been imprisoned by the Faith Militant for crimes of carnal sin, Jaime had been sent to retrieve their daughter Myrcella from enemy hands in Dorne. As Cersei was paraded naked through the streets in an act of atonement, their daughter had been poisoned and died in Jaime’s arms. Returning her body to King’s Landing, Cersei had spoken of how as a child she’d wondered often about their beautiful mother’s face decaying. Though Jaime had tried to comfort her, she’d rambled on about a prophecy, fate, how what had happened to their children had been written in stone. “Fuck prophecy” Jaime had vowed, “Fuck fate. Fuck everyone that isn’t us. We’re the only ones who matter, the only ones in the world and everything they’ve taken from us we’re going to take back and more. We’re going to take everything there is.” Now Jaime wished he had never said it.

 

Cersei had sent him away to recapture the Tully seat of Riverrun from the family who had held it since inception. Meanwhile she had refused to show at a trial to discern her final judgement before the Gods of the Seven. Looking out instead from the vantage point of a tower in the Red Keep, Cersei had watched with wine and a smile as the grand Sept of Baelor, where she and Jaime had just buried their daughter and before her their father and son Joffrey, every King past and his royal kin, had gone up in green flames. Blown to smithereens, hundreds of Faith Militant and generations of noble families had burnt down to nothing, including their son King Tommen’s new wife, her brother and father and so many others. Confined to his quarters their last boy had watched the temple smoulder and been so crushed by what his mother truly was that he’d stoically put aside his crown and leapt from the window ledge to his untimely death. Returning from Riverrun now under the crown’s dominion, Jaime had found Cersei sitting in the throne room and known that the prophecy of which she’d spoken had come true and Cersei had acted upon Jaime’s oath to take back everything. Now the only Lannisters who mattered, at least in King’s Landing, Jaime had done everything his Queen had commanded, living in fear of becoming surplus.  When she in desperation had allied with Ironborn scum, Jaime’s opposition had fallen upon deaf ears. When she had called their vassals and ordered the dissolution of House Tyrell, Jaime had led the attack and plundered. Submitting to poisoning an elderly woman, she had lost her entire family to Cersei’s bonfire at the Baelor and in her last moments admitted to being their son Joffrey's murderer. Tasked with delivering stolen gold and grain to King's Landing, Jaime had almost perished to Dothraki screamers and dragon fire. Saved by Bronn, he'd told him to jump in the river in his armour rather than attempt to reason with Cersei. The last few months had felt exactly like wading whilst being weighed down. Tricked into a meeting with Tyrion, bitterness over his murder of their father had been put aside in order to arrange the summit to which Snow had brought the dead thing. Cersei of course had known all along, allowing the reunion out of curiosity. Revealing to Jaime that she had begun to suspect that some allegiance with their enemies was what their father would have done, she’d also spoken of legacy, told Jaime that she was pregnant and warned him never to betray her ever again.

 

In the dragonpit with a Dragon Queen and an army of the dead marching on Westeros, still Cersei had played for keeps. Ordering the King in the North to step down from her eventual fight for the throne, honest as he was stupid, Snow had insisted that he could not serve two queens, that his armies belonged to somebody else. Aware that a north united with a Targaryen was a war she could not win, Cersei had refused the armistice. Seeming as though a lot of people had died and alot of others had fought to live only for it to be for nothing, she had swept from the Dreadfort and Jaime had followed. Dragging on his arm, Brienne of Tarth, who was the only reason that he’d ever made it back to Cersei with one hand, that Sansa Stark had finally gone home, had petitioned him to talk to his queen. Though he had and at length, she had only insulted and rebuffed him. Granted an audience directly afterwards, Tyrion had somehow succeeded where Jaime had failed. Cersei had agreed to join the Dragon Queen, the northmen and their happy mess of allies in fighting the armies of the dead. As Jaime had commanded their men for the expedition ahead, Cersei had dismissed them. Calling Jaime ‘the stupidest Lannister’, ‘an idiot’ and ‘a traitor’, she’d insisted that she’d only told their enemies what they needed to hear, that the survival of House Lannister mattered more than anything. Jaime had been disappointed only in the fact that after all of this time he had been surprised. Looking at his Queen, his lover and sister, Cersei like the ghost of a girl that he’d been forced to watch die, Jaime had realized that he was finally alone and rather than feeling abandoned, he had only felt free. Braver and more terrified than he had ever been, Jaime had called Cersei’s bluff on his execution for treason and with the undead Mountain’s breath at his neck, knowing that Cersei held his unborn child inside of her, Jaime had left on a mission of his own making intent upon helping somebody other than themselves.

 

“Silence I can stomach, but this fucking brooding? Will you stop if I get you a woman? Closure’s good medicine for a break up.”

“We have not _broken up_ ,” Jaime spat bitterly at Bronn of House Stokeworth. From sellsword to commander of the city watch to married lord, nobleman and expectant father, he owed everything he was to Tyrion and the constancy of Lannister gold in exchange for acts of low cunning. His better acts had been teaching Jaime to fight again after he had lost his hand, accompanying him to Dorne, saving him from a dragon, dragging him from a river and arranging the meeting with Tyrion which had led to the peace summit. All of it, Bronn had insisted, had been done in the name of payment, but Jaime suspected that now he had the titles he’d long desired, all he wanted was to swap dying squatting over a chamber pot for going down in battle, as toasted snack for dragons or rising again as fresh meat under the Night King. None of that was to say that Jaime respected or liked him.

“I guess twins don’t have that option,” Bronn sighed, picking berry skins from between his teeth with his nails, “You two ever feel the _same_ _things_ at the _same_ _times_? Beyond orgasms-”

“You’re disgusting.” Jaime would have hit him if he was capable of staying on his horse with just his golden hand.

“‘N you’ve got one ‘and ‘n a face that gets you fucked or killed. Seeing as how I’ve been sent to stop ya dying can we please find a pretty wench to satisfy the sad, lonely lil boy inside ya?” Jaime shook his head at him and forced his horse on in to a trot. After the way Cersei had looked at him, he struggled to believe that she’d sent Bronn for his protection. “Ever been with a northern lass?” Bronn shouted after him. “Ever made the eight?”

“Only ever had the _one_ woman…” Jaime sighed. Once a point of romantic pride, now he felt perhaps that he had wasted his life. Bronn sniggered at him, slapping his own knee.

“What a fucking tragedy. If ah could borrow _that_ _face_ for an evening I’d fuck everything that moved...even that big woman, Brienne.” Jaime glared across at him and sped up again.

“Gods, I prefer travelling alone.”

 

Jaimes hadn’t made it far out of the crownlands. His domain since adolescence, he’d fallen from King’s Guard to Kingslayer, been made commander of his son’s King’s Guards and then his Queen’s armies. Stepping down from that position, Jaime had covered his golden hand and the lion head pommel of his sword, but it had all been for nought. Avoiding the King’s Road lest he cross paths again with the Dothraki or their escorts, Jaime had taken the same paths less travelled that Brienne had chosen when she had returned him to King’s Landing. Acting upon the orders of Catelyn Stark, she had released him from Robb Stark’s camp in order to be exchanged for her daughters, Sansa and Arya, but no such deal had happened. Cersei and Tywin had married Sansa off to Tyrion and she had gone missing shortly after Joffrey had been murdered at his own wedding. Gone without a trace ever since her father, Ned had lost his head, Arya had long been considered just as dead. Still Brienne had lingered at the capital long after delivering Jaime, harassing him to complete his end of the oath. Trapped by family loyalties, by Cersei’s thirst for vengeance and Tywin’s manipulations, Jaime had gifted Brienne the trappings of a true knight: fine armour, hapless squire, handsome horse and a sword forged from the steel of Ned Stark’s old blade. Jaime had instructed Brienne to use it to find and protect his children. Asked what she’d call it, Brienne had drawn upon all Jaime had told her of his past as ‘oathbreaker’ and turned the slur upon its head.

“Oathkeeper,” she’d said and he’d known that she would, for the both of them. Reunited with Brienne again in the pit, for the way Cersei was looking, for what she’d done to others who stood in their way, Jaime had never let his gaze stray. Still when Brienne had pulled on his arm, the blade had swung at her hip and he’d known that she had fought tooth and nail to earn the name she’d given it. Sansa was home at Winterfell. Brienne was her sworn shield and yet she had come to King’s Landing to the summit. In the face of Cersei’s volatility, she had demanded that Jaime: “fuck loyalty” and just as Cersei had acted upon his vow of “fuck prophecy”, Jaime had listened to the purest woman he had ever known and set out to do what he believed to be true.

 

Riding out of King’s Landing with no army behind him, on through the small holdings of Rosby and Antlers, toward Duskendale and Maidenpool, Jaime had felt sure that he was being followed, or else that he was retreading the path taken by Brienne when she had left him to find the missing girls. Infamy allowing him to pass unmolested, Jaime had harboured no fears about travelling solo within the crownlands. In light of being stalked, he had chosen to swap his bedroll for a mattress within the Seven Swords. The largest Inn within Duskendale the building stretched over four floors and was named after the seven heirs of the lords of Duskendale, the Darklyns. Though they had at different times served as members of the King’s Guard, none of their direct descendants remained on account of an event Jaime had heard told many times: the Defiance of Duskendale. Refusing to pay taxes the Lord Denys had invited the Mad King to hear his petition and then imprisoned him. Hand to the King, Jaime’s father Tywin had besieged the castle to ensure Aerys II Targaryen’s return. After half a year, he’d allowed the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy to embark on a solo rescue mission. Given a day to succeed or die trying, he had scaled the walls by night and slipped in disguised as a beggar man. Rescuing his king from the dungeons, he’d slayed the killer of a fallen brother and despite suffering an arrow to the chest, had acquired a horse. Bringing the Mad King to safety, Denys had been hostageless and forced to surrender. In the aftermath all involved had been executed, some tortured. Their villages had been burnt and castles torn down, all the riches of Duskendale redistributed. Forever changed by his imprisonment, the Mad King had spiralled. Refusing to leave the Red Keep or even to be touched, rarely bathing or shaving, the only swords permitted close to his person had been those of his King’s Guard. Convinced that Tywin had arranged his kidnapping with Denys, that he sought to see his son Rhaegar on the Iron throne, Aerys had never met with anyone without the presence of all seven of his guards. In the end though it had only taken one to quell his madness and Jaime was still known far and wide for it.

 

Foolishly he’d thought that at least if he was injured or taken for ransom, word would get back to his sister in King’s Landing, but as he’d hitched his horse outside of the Seven Swords, he’d remembered that he probably wasn’t welcome any place named after King’s Guards. Then a bag had been thrown over his head and he’d been knocked to the ground. Waking with hands roughly bound and the taste of copper and salt on his cracked lips with no idea how much time had passed, Jaime had laughed in spite of himself. Then he’d realised that he was lying not on the cold stone floor of a dungeon, but on a soft mattress. Sitting up and looking around, he hadn’t been able to see anything on account of the bag on his head, but he’d heard the clattering of a kitchen and the smell of breakfast cooking: duck sausage and fried eggs and mushrooms and bacon burnt black. Calloused hands had come to the rope at his wrists and a voice he didn’t recognise had hissed:

“Kingslayer...Don’t you fucking move.” Restraints falling to the floor, Jaime had been reminded of the days spent on horseback with Brienne when they’d been taken by the Boltons. She’d almost been raped and he had lost his hand. Realising that he had nothing left with which to bribe anyone: not his father’s money or fear of his family, that Cersei would let him lose another limb just to teach him a lesson, he’d thought only of fighting a bear to save Brienne. One of the most exhilarating encounters of his life, it had been in that moment that Jaime had felt most like the man he had always wanted to be.

 

Thinking on honour and lost limbs, Queens and women with eyes like gemstones, the bag had been whipped from Jaime’s head and the sword poking into his back had left him. Blinking, eyes streaming against the blinding sunlight, when his vision had adjusted, he’d seen Bronn leaning upon the closed door. Out of his fine robes and in the dark gear of a travelling sellsword, he’d said: “Mornin’ sleepyhead”. Jaime had sunken into a sitting position on the bed, throwing a pillow at him.

“You piece of _shit_ ,” he’d cursed, “I thought-”

“You’d be safer sleeping under roof of the Seven fucking Swords than out under the stars?”

“Well in light of the fact that I was being followed-” Bronn had nodded smugly at him

“Damn fucking straight. Where the hell were you off to so late?” Jaime had swallowed and massaged his wrist which had been rubbed raw by the ropes used to bind him.

“North,” he'd admitted and Bronn had frowned,” I intend to keep my oath, to help in the fight against the dead.” Shaking his head, Bronn had quipped:

“ _Dead_ is what you’ll fucking be if you leave Cersei.” Realisation dawning, Jaime had smiled at him.

“She sent you...to kill me?” Bronn cocked his head, thumbs in his belt and leaning on the door frame. “You don’t go anywhere there isn’t money.”

“Exactly,” he'd agreed, unable to meet Jaime’s eyes. He wouldn’t take it personally. Bronn was now Lord, but beneath that he would always be a sellsword. “The north ain’t no place for _us_. Don’t be selfish now. I’ve got bad circulation. Best be off 'ome.” Bronn had given him a bed and made no moves of violence against him. Had he meant to assassinate Jaime, he’d had every opportunity.

“Cersei sent you to _protect_ me?” Bronn had met his eyes then, brows raised and laughing.

“You sound surprised. You two are _fucked_ _up_. It was her orders or execution for treason.”

“Yes, I know-” Jaime hadn't been able to say that he knew Cersei anymore. They were twins in blood, but no longer in intention “-that feeling.” Heart sinking again, as heavy as his missing hand, Jaime had held it with his other one, remembering how Cersei had loved him when he’d been whole, how united they had been, how beautiful their children...

“Clean up tha’ mug.” Bronn had clapped a hand upon his shoulder. “N’ come break fast wi’ Lollys. Though a warn ya, she eats like a horse now she’s pregnant.” Jaime had been reminded of better times again.

“Been known to happen. Cersei...always craved candied almonds.” Bronn had nodded as though unable to imagine a woman so dangerous desiring sweet things.

“Well since we’re naming this kid after Tyrion you’d think it’d have the courtesy to be small like ‘im.” _Would Tyrion approve of playing namesake to the son of a sellsword?_ Jaime had wondered. _Would the babe read like him or fight dirty like Bronn? Would my child succumb to treachery or strive for even a sliver of decency?_

“Why Tyrion?” he'd asked and Bronn had stopped in the door, turning to him with a sigh.

“Well...wouldn’t a met Lollys without ‘im.” His sincerity surprising him, Jaime had asked what seemed in hindsight a stupid question.

“Do you love her?” Bronn had quickly reminded Jaime of his true nature.

“ _Love?”_ he'd spat the word the way he no doubt thought of things like _honour_ and _loyalty and_ rolled his eyes at Jaime’s naivety. “ _Love's_  no profitable transaction. Longer it lasts, lower ya shares, greater risk o'... _liquidation_. I'm a hustler, not a dreamer. You’d do well to wake up too.” Nodding at a bowl of water and a washrag on the sideboard, Bronn had left the chamber. Lying back on the bed, with a laboured sigh, Jaime had thought again of Cersei. In spite of the ways she snubbed him, he still wanted to die in the arms of the woman he loved and so he knew, in a way that was somewhat comforting, that in time he would return, as he always had, to King’s Landing. Cersei would be there with his child and hopefully she’d have gotten over the desire to hang him. They’d book a boat and escape in secret to Essos. Lannisters on the run from Targaryens, the wheel would have come full circle again. He just had to make it North and back again, having defeated the army of the dead, the Night King and having managed not to be taken for ransom by Cersei's many enemies. Last they'd spoken, she had called him 'the stupidest Lannister' and now that cousin Lancel was dead, Jaime suspected that his actions would prove that insult to be correct.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only Game of Thrones could convince people to harbour a soft spot for a guy who threw a kid from a tower, crippling him for life all to prevent word getting out that he's been boning his own sister since adolescence...
> 
> But that is where we're at. As for Bronn...I have a friend who loves him, but I just don't get it. If he existed in the real world, I feel like he'd just be a thug who beat people up for money. You know like Ronnie Kray of the Kray Twins, but not so gay?
> 
> Do you like either of these problematic men? Does anybody really ship Jaime and Cersei?


	12. A Bad Omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Jaime down South to up North. 
> 
> House Umber feels the Winter chill. No word gets out and Ned thinks of robins, direwolves and dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the inconsistency. Had a two week visit with my sister in which I slept 3 hrs a night. Then 1 blissful week finally spending time with my true love followed by a week of being down in the dumps.
> 
> I'm so focused on writing atm (a novel as well as this) that if it's not going well my mood really reflects that and I feel like I haven't accomplished anything so...probably time to start exercising or something. 
> 
> Anyway you didn't ask for my life story. Here's some Thrones story. Thanks for sticking with me!

**NED UMBER**

 

Ned tossed and turned only to be woken by a raucous chorus of birds flying over Last Hearth long before dawn. Standing at the frost covered window, he breathed upon the glass and saw small shapes darting out of the forest. Heart in his throat and squinting into the darkness, the screaming which followed assured him that the creatures were only foxes, badgers, hares, brown bears. All of them were fleeing in the same direction, predator and prey as though from something bigger, but nothing followed. Face pressed almost to the pane, a bird came smashing through and fell to the floor at Ned’s feet. Leaning to turn the small body with pale hands, the red breast of the robin rose and fell, once and then again. Skull flattened, neck broken, Ned held the bird remembering how his mother had always said the robin’s song signalled the coming of spring. His father had once told him that if a robin pecked at your window it meant death was coming. Either way, his parents were long buried and the robin dying in his hand was a bad omen. 

 

Last anybody had spoken of death, Ned had been standing in the Great Hall at Winterfell. In the face of Lords bickering over the inheritance of houses now without leaders, the King in the North had denied his sister’s suggestion that traitors have their homes taken from them. Calling upon Ned and Alys, his closest neighbour at Karhold in the east, Jon Snow had requested they pledge fealty. Kneeling and swearing allegiance to him and House Stark, now and always, in sight of the entire North, Ned had wondered whether his father would have been proud of him. Last Hearth had once taken in the King's youngest brother, Rickon Stark. Coming to a vassal house seeking sanctuary, House Umber had held the boy hostage instead. News that the bastard Jon Snow, then Commander of the Night’s Watch had allowed Wildlings beyond the Wall had caused an uproar. Closest castle to the Wall, whenever the Wildlings had made it over or around, the first to suffer had always been the Umbers. All his life Ned had been told stories of men who killed others to eat them, men who laid with bears and their own daughters, men who drank the blood of children. The Wall had been erected to protect Westeros from them, but Jon had fallen for their stories: of dead men rising, of ice giants and avalanches that carried a mortal silence. 

 

Ned’s father Smalljon had told his son that he meant to utilise the heir to Winterfell as leverage against the Wildling lover, Jon. His sister had been married to the bastard of Bolton, a man who had taken Winterfell from an Ironborn rebellion. Ned had overheard the smithys talking: about how he’d flayed the traitors living, castrated the heir of House Greyjoy and kept him in a kennel. A boy of only four and ten, Rickon had arrived with a woman and a direwolf. The sigil of his family’s house, the beast had been kept chained and starving. Howling long into the evening, talk had spread that it was calling it’s pack from the forest. Ordered to silence the thing, a man had lost an arm attempting to muzzle it. Irritated by incompetence, Smalljon had called upon his son to help him into armour and had the beast brought into the sparring yard. From the safety of the parapets, hands gripping the balcony, Ned had watched as his father had baited the wolf like a bullfighter. Advancing, snarling and snapping with huge jaws, teeth like white arrowheads, it had circled and leapt upon Smalljon to gasps of horror. Leaning over the edge for what could have been a last look at his father, Ned had heard him bellow: “fuck you Stark!” Then he’d pushed the huge creature off his chest, revealing the sword he’d sunk deep into its heart. Face scratched and bleeding, Smalljon had stumbled to his feet and wrenched the blade out of the wolf’s ribcage. The cry it had made had haunted Ned for days. The sight of Rickon in tears had stayed with him too. Ned had not cried in company since he was seven. His mother had died and his father had told him that sobbing was for women and helpless children, that grief was a waste of feeling.  Listening to his father shouting about Jon Snow and Wildlings, about traitors to the realm and how House Umber could survive anything, Ned had wondered why his mother hadn’t, why Rickon’s parent’s hadn’t, why his father would rather side with a man who peeled off people’s skin than with Wildlings.

 

When his maid, Cora arrived to light the hearth, Ned had left the window and was sitting in bed, still holding the robin. The chambers which had once belonged to his father were slow to warm. The bed where Ned had been born still dwarfed him. Kneeling Cora took his hands in hers and relieved him of the bird, eyes dark as thought she knew what it meant.

“Death is coming now, isn’t it?” he asked her breath rising in a crystalline mist. The air seemed a season colder than it had been when Ned had laid down for the night. The morning light was grey as though the sky hung heavy with imminent snow. Smiling Cora was quick to toss the bird into the flames, but slow to reply. Wiping her hands down her skirt and placing one on his head, she said:

“Go looking for signs ‘n you’re bound to find ‘em, lordling.” Lifting his bare feet, she cooed over how cold they were and rubbed them in her hands. Blowing and warming them with her breath, fingers tickling, Ned couldn’t bring himself to laugh. “Birds lose their way,” she insisted seriously, trying to comfort him. Reaching for a broom to clear away the broken glass, Cora brushed whilst Ned asked her another question.

“What about foxes, badgers, bears? I saw them all  _ out there  _ running from the trees.” Cora stood hand on hip, laughing at him.

“Well master sounds to me like you’ve ‘ad quite the dream ‘n the lil red breast startled ya.” For years Ned had told Cora about his dreams. She knew his hopes and fears and had wiped away his tears whenever he had woken from nightmares or his mother had come to him whilst sleeping.  _ Mother would have helped bury the robin, _ Ned thought,  _ sang a song for it so that spring wouldn’t forget to come _ .  _ She’d never have killed a direwolf or given anybody else’s son to the Boltons. _ Ned’s father had gone to battle and only his body had returned. Wildlings had killed him, but he had died fighting. Of the survivors who had made it back to Last Hearth, they had spoken of Rickon set loose upon the battlefield and told to run, how Ramsay Bolton had used him as target practice, killing him an inch from his brother, Jon’s outstretched hands. Ned had never heard of any Wildlings doing such a thing. His mother had told him: “all seperatin’ you from children o’ Wildlings is a Wall. Those on t’other side, they worship our Gods. They live ‘n laugh ‘n sing ‘n love ‘n die same as anyone. Men just like to belong. Us ‘n them is all the stories o’ legend, but the victors tell it different to the conquered, my darling. Truth ain't nothin’ t’ dead men...nor for the ears of children. Lemme tell you a tale of milk names. Wildlings you see never name babes ‘til 2 summers ‘ave passed...”

 

Small for his age, a childhood of listening at doors and going unseen under tables had been Ned’s only way of knowing what was going on. An only child, Cora’s son Keyron was the closest thing to a brother Ned had ever known and though he was once always getting Ned into trouble, his mother had made it her duty to keep him from harm. After her death his father had insisted the heir to Last Hearth ought to know what was expected of him. Sitting at his side, Ned had heard tales of the kind his mother had wished to protect him from. The classical education she'd preferred had been dropped in favour of intense instruction in the ways of every weapon. Given a blade and bow of his own, Ned often crawled into bed bruised and sore. Named after Eddard Stark, the late Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he'd been a legendary warrior. Fighting against the armies of Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident and defeating Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne in single combat in the red mountains of Dorne, Ned had heard all of the stories, but feared he might never live up to them. Now that he was the Lord of Last Hearth he had little time for Keyron. Boys his age climbed trees and played checkers and knucklebones whilst Ned met with all manner of men. In truth his mother's teachings had served Ned well in his new position. His sword had remained sheathed whilst his mind and his heart saw the most action. Trusted with important decisions regarding the welfare of nobles and smallfolk, soldiers and peasants, Ned listened and heeded the wisdom of his council. When Lady Stark had sent a raven demanding shipments of grain in preparation for a formidable northern force garrisoned at Winterfell, Ned had met with the harvesters, Last Hearth’s pantler, steward and Maester Frayser. Together measures for rationing had been made and as such Ned’s people were displeased with him. Despite the fact that Lady Stark had promised to return any grain going spare, the men of the far north were going too hungry to care. Thinking of the future at Winter's end was a luxury not afforded to them. Ned had heard the Maester talking to the steward, Jock about how many would fall to the cold that season. 

“Children and the elderly mostly,” he'd said and Jock had laughed and said: 

“Time makes plenty more of ‘em.”

“Old men are a rare thing in the North,” Maester had replied and Jock had nodded, toasting him.

“Aye, summer’s short ‘n winter’s long. Boyhoods a song ‘n when it ends ya fuck, ya fight, leave a son ‘n die on the field if ya lucky.”

“And if you're unlucky?” the Maester had asked and Ned had wanted to know too.

“Then ya die from being struck in the head by falling timber like Greatjon Umber.” 

 

Gossip amongst the smallfolk had claimed Ned’s father had murdered his own father in order to betray the Starks. Ned’s grandfather had named Jon's late brother Robb Stark, his King in the North and followed him into battle with the Lannisters. He'd told Ned stories of losing three fingers to a direwolf and defeating lions for the Riverlanders. Hit by a tree and knocked into a coma, Ned had sat at his grandfather's bedside just as he'd done with his mother and read to him, stories of knights and maidens, tourneys and battles. Even calling in the minstrel to sing Greatjon’s favourite song, nothing had been able to raise him. He’d passed in less than a dozen days and as the barber had trimmed his hair and beard for the last time, Ned had wanted to cry. Instead he'd kept a lock in secret, tucked into the book he'd been reading to him. Stealing a moment away from his Maester and obligations, Ned was sitting reading the History of Aegon the Conqueror and his Conquest of Westeros when word came from Keyron that intruders were approaching. Reminded instantly of the robin, of death, Ned had run up to the battlements taking the steps two at a time. As though he was still dreaming he’d seen shapes emerging from the forest in a long stream: men and women, all in shades of grey and white, Wildlings, shouting and screaming. Atop the battlements archers jumped to their posts, drawing arrows and waited for the order to loose them. Ned gave it without hesitation. Death had come, but not for them. The Wildlings fell one by one and by the time anybody had noticed there were children running it was too late for most of them. One woman fell and a babe spilled from within her bosom to lie screaming in the snow, dyed red as a rose. Reminded of Rickon, Ned shouted for the archers to nock. Descending Ned ordered for the gates to be opened. Survivors begged for their lives and that of their offspring and claimed to be running from a dragon. The lock of Greatjon’s hair still in Ned’s hand, his head was full of images of Aegon and his dragon Balerion the Black Dread, his sister wives Rhaenys and Visenya and the swords of their enemies burnt down to make the Iron Throne in Kings Landing. Against the wishes of his men, the King in the North had gone south to meet with a Targaryen, but no word had come that the dragon queen had returned with him. No word had come at all, but Jon had been good to Ned. He hoped that the King hadn’t died like his brother Rickon, alone and thinking of home. The Wildling children were unwillingly welcomed because Ned knew it was what his King would have wanted. 

 

Checking the dead and tending to wounded, Don and Keyron walked the field with Ned who made a beeline for the infant whose mother had fallen. Still in swaddling, its cheeks were flushed and its small hands frozen. A man in rags put a hand on Ned to take it and Don squared up, threatening him with the spear he'd just been poking into the man's dead kin. Keen to diffuse the conflict, Ned offered up the infant and as the man tucked it into his furs, Don asked for a name.

“Ain't earned no name,” the Wildling hissed at him and spat on the ground at Ned’s feet. “Kneelers..” Don’s grip tightened about his spear again and Keyron glared after the man. Ned raised a hand.

“Conditions o’er the Wall ‘re harsh. Women n’ babes die often,” he told Don, “That's why they kidnap wives and think it bad luck t’ name their children still at mother's breast.”

“Yer own mother tell ya tha’ horseshit? Soft heart like tha’ bastard King. Even after she were almost  taken by ‘em. Smalljon near died gettin’ ‘er back. He'd die again if he saw Last Hearth playin’ host to Wildlin-”

“Father broke faith with House Stark. I pledged fealty. King Jon granted ‘em lands n they fought for ‘im against the Boltons. Tha’ makes ‘em northmen. It's our duty to protect ‘em.” At the gates the Wildlings parted as Don led Keyron and Ned through to the courtyard. A woman reached for him and kissed his hand, rambling and crying. Unable to understand, Ned asked Don:

“What are they all saying?”  Rolling his eyes, Don only shook his head at him.

“Somethin’...‘bout a dragon ‘n dead men, blue eyes, Whites walkin’. Fear mongerin’ bullshit outta mouths o’ heathens, milord. Don’t you listen to ‘em. We aint lettin’ anymore in.”

“But they’re running from  _ something- _ ”

“Probably each other,” Keyron offered, glaring across the courtyard at the children, “T’other side o’ Wall they kill tribes fo’ sport.” Nodding in agreement, the gatekeeper Mac cut in spitting his own observations:

“No idea o’ kinship. Inbred the lot. Can’t trust em. Breed like rabbits cos they don’t give a shit ‘bout their children. Now we gotta look out for em cos ‘o some bastard-”

“Jon is our  _ King _ . It’s by  _ his _ grace that this castle was not given over to the Glovers.”

“Aye,” Mac agreed with Ned, but continued to speak ill of the King, “The Wildling lover’s got a soft heart. ‘is sister’s a better bloody battle commander. Bet that dragon lady’s ‘ad ‘im. Maybe it  _ was _ ‘er who came for ‘em.”

“Dragons and dead men,” Don drawled. No fan of the gatekeeper, he walked Ned away from him, “Never believe a thing you ain’t seen.” Ned nodded. His mother had said Wildlings died like any of them. Though Ned wanted to believe the King, he didn't want to have to defend the north from dead men. Squeezing Ned’s shoulder and smiling, Don asked: “Now tell me what you want doin’ with the Widlings?” 

“Free Folk,” Ned corrected him remembering how that was what King Jon had called them and Don rolled his eyes again. At the same time, screaming burst out across the courtyard. Two women were fighting over an infant, pulling hair and punching. Umbers cheered them on. At Don’s insistence, it took two men to separate them. 

“Free to be fucking morons,” Don sighed, “Dogs are better behaved. Best we sling em in the kennels-”

“No!” Ned denied him, reminded of Ramsay Bolton and that Ironborn son, of Rickon’s direwolf howling, of his father killed by a Wildling, of King Jon who had refused to punish a child for their father’s sins. Staring at a boy holding his mother’s hand, Ned said: “Have the guest chambers made up for them.”

 

The second wave came not long after. The same Wildlings who’d been clawing at the doors were screaming to get out again. Ned sent Keyron to get Maester Frayser and send a raven to King Jon. The shapes came not from within the forest, but over it. A shadow spanning the tree line, like a murder of crows made up of thousands. An ominous cloud set to suffocate them, it swept over the castle and back again. Striking the rookery, the tower was set aflame as though by lightning. The air hung thick with the scent of flesh burning. The small figure of Keyron went tumbling over the edge and down into the courtyard below. Crying out for him, Ned saw that the light of the fire was not red, but brightest blue and illuminated everything that Don had sworn to him could not be true. A man with skin, slick and spiked like ice mounted the flying shadow. A dragon, holes were torn through its wings like burns in parchment. A kite with so many tears could not have flown and yet the beast circled and spewed flame again. Disintegrating the heavy wooden doors that had just opened to Wildlings, the bodies of those who hadn’t made it littered the field before the keep. Mac walked several feet a flame before falling down as though asleep. At the edge of the forest a line of men stood a dozen deep. Faces worn to bone, sockets missing eyeballs, muscles hung from their skeletons like the men the Boltons had flayed, but they were no longer living. Armed with all manner of weapon, they stood silent and waiting. The flapping of the dragon’s wings as it circled above them was the only sound. Then the fallen began to stand. Joints cracking, wounds fresh, arrows still in them, the Wildling’s eyes glinted a blue like Ned had never seen. The first to start running, arrows flew in a song of wind and wood and though they pierced them, the dead fell and rose again. Open mouthed and horrified, the lock of his grandfather's hair fell from Ned’s hand as men pushed past him on the battlements. Kneeling to search for it, he remembered what he had promised the King, what Jon had stood up against to defend his home and Ned straightened up. Unsheathing his sword as he knew Jon would have done, he ran down to face what the robin had warned him was coming. Roaring blood soaked Wildling men armed by Don went running past him. Ordering Cora to evacuate the children and old women, Ned walked screaming after them through the flaming arch which had once been the door of his home. His mother may have been right about Wildlings, but she was wrong about the Spring. Like the robin, most wouldn't see another one.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured it wouldn't be fair to have all this destruction implied in a letter to dear Sansa.
> 
> Next up will be Jaime begging Riverlanders to join with him in aiding Dany and Jon...
> 
> Is he the stupidest Lannister? I feel like Lancel was pretty dumb.


End file.
